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i>llS  IITLP  H 


Form  No.  471 


.S  BlLN  WuCKUr 


Li.ltD 


ANNIE    LAURIE   AND   AZALEA 


Azalea  nml   ('ai'iii  ami  Annie  Laurie. 


ANNIE  LAURIE 
AND  AZALEA 


BY 

ELIA  W.  PEATTIE 


Illustrations   by 
Joseph   Pierre  Nuyttens 


The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 
Chicago 


Copyright,    19 13 
by 

The  Reilly  &  Britton   Co. 


Annie  Laurie  and  Azalea 


Annie  Laurie  and  Azalea 

beg  to  be  -presented  to 

Lorainey  Catherine^  Elizabeth  and  Bernice 


O 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Two    AND    One    Make  —  How 

Many?  n 

II    Annie  Laurie  Pace 30 

III  Trial  Without  Jury 47 

IV  A  Rainy  Night 68 

V    The  Summers 87 

VI    Sunday  100 

VII    The  Signal 119 

VIII    The  Mystery 128 

IX    The  Disbrows 147 

X    Sam  167 

XI    Marching  Orders 181 

XII    "The  Doll  Lady" 198 

XIII  The  Long  Red  Road 217 

XIV  Hi's  Houn'  Dog 231 

XV    The  Voice  in  the  Mist 247 

XVI    Good  for  Evil 261 

XVII    Azalea's  Party 28 1 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Azalea   and    Carin    and   Annie    Laurie.... 

Frontispiece 

Carin    stood    awaiting    them,    her    hands 
outstretched   64 

Back   and   forth  went   her   lantern,   saying: 
"All  is  well!  All  is  well!" 122 

"But   you've   come   back,    son,    to    face    the 


n 


music 192 

"Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  strange  voice 266 


ANNIE  LAURIE 
AND  AZALEA 


CHAPTER  I 

TWO  AND  ONE  MAKE — HOW  MANY? 

The  long  red  clay  road,  winding  down  from 
the  cabin  where  the  McBirneys  lived  on  their 
high  shelf  of  Tennyson  mountain,  was  frosted 
delicately  with  white,  and  by  the  roadside  the 
curious  frost  flowers  lifted  their  heads,  as  airy- 
fine  as  fern.  From  the  half-hidden  cabins  all 
around  the  semicircle  of  mountains  that  skirted 
the  valley  of  Lee,  shafts  of  smoke  arose,  showing 
that  the  people  were  about  the  business  of  the 
day.  Straight,  gray  and  shadowy  these  smoke- 
shafts  lifted  through  the  lilac-tinted  air;  and 
below  in  the  little  town,  other  shafts  of  smoke 
ascended  as  if  in  friendly  answer. 

Azalea  McBirney,  in  her  dark  riding  skirt 
and  bright  knitted  cap  and  reefer,  came  running 
from  the  cabin  with  the  manner  of  a  girl  very 
much  behindhand. 


12    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Ain't  he  there  yet,  Zalie?"  a  voice  called 
from  the  cabin.  "Ain't  Jim  brought  them  ponies 
around  yet?" 

"No,  mother,"  Azalea  answered  over  her 
shoulder,  starting  toward  the  stable.  "Maybe 
the  ponies  have  been  naughty  again.  I'll  go 
see." 

"You  just  stay  where  you  be,"  commanded 
James  Stuart  McBirney  from  the  stable. 
"You've  got  all  your  work  done,  ben't  you? 
Well,  that's  all  you  have  to  think  about.  This 
here  is  my  job  and  I  mean  to  do  it  whatever 
comes,  though  these  here  ponies  certainly  do 
act  up  on  a  morning  like  this." 

"Well,  I  would  just  as  soon  get  my  breath 
for  a  moment,"  Azalea  remarked  to  nobody  in 
particular,  seating  herself  on  the  bench  by  the 
side  of  the  door.  "As  Hi  Kitchell's  mother  says, 
*I  bin  goin'  like  a  streak  o'  lightnin'  since  sun- 
up.' " 

Her  cheeks  were,  indeed,  a  trifle  over-flushed, 
and  forgetting  for  a  moment  how  time  was  has- 
tening along,  and  that  she  and  Jim  ought  already 
to  be  on  the  road  to  school,  she  leaned  her  head 
against  the  side  of  the  cabin  and  looked  about 
her  contentedly.    She  loved  the  scene  before  her ; 


TWO  AND  ONE  13 

loved  the  pines  with  their  light  coating  of  hoar- 
frost; loved  the  waterfall  with  its  gleaming  ici- 
cles ;  loved  the  scent  of  the  wood-smoke  and  the 
sight  of  "Molly  Cottontail"  scampering  through 
the  bushes. 

Moreover,  the  kiss  of  Mary  McBirney  lay 
warm  on  her  lips — Mary  McBirney  who  had 
taken  her  in  when  she  was  a  motherless  and 
friendless  girl,  and  whom  she  found  it  sweet  to 
call  mother.  "Mother"  was  a  longer  word  than 
Jim — otherwise  James  Stuart  McBirney,  the 
true  son  of  the  house — found  it  convenient  to 
use  when  he  spoke  of  the  woman  who  was  the 
background  of  his  world.  "Ma"  was  the  term 
he  chose,  and  Mary  McBirney  would  not  have 
cared  to  have  him  try  any  other. 

For  Jim  was  just  Jim — her  own  freckled,  shy, 
plucky  fellow.  He  went  down  to  the  district 
school,  riding  on  the  pony  the  Carsons  had  given 
him,  while  beside  him,  quite  as  if  she  were  his 
own  sister,  rode  Azalea,  who  trusted  him  to  see 
her  through  any  danger  of  the  road,  who  laughed 
as  much  as  anybody  could  wish  at  his  "hill  billy" 
jokes,  and  who  never,  never  forgot  how  he  had 
welcomed  her  into  his  home,  to  share  all  he  had, 


J4    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

though  there  never  had,  at  any  time,  been  very 
much  to  share. 

Yet,  though  she  had  been  only  the  "child  won- 
der" of  a  wandering  "show"  when  she  came  to 
the  McBirney's — her  own  poor  little  mother  ly- 
ing dead  in  one  of  the  wagons — it  was  she,  and 
not  Jim,  the  carefully  reared  boy,  who  had  the 
grand  little  ways.  Jim  was  a  country  boy,  with 
a  country  boy's  straightforward,  simple  man- 
ners. But  about  Azalea  there  was  something — ■ 
well,  something  different.  So  different  was  she 
from  the  McBirneys  that  she  seemed  like  a  car- 
dinal bird  which  had  been  storm-driven  into  one 
of  the  martin  gourds  that  hung  in  the  high  cross- 
trees  before  the  McBirney's  door. 

All  that  was  easily  understood  by  the  few  who 
knew  her  story.  Her  grandfather  had  been  Col- 
onel Atherton,  the  richest,  the  proudest,  and  the 
most  elegant  gentleman  in  all  the  countryside. 
He  had  owned  great  plantations  in  the  old  slave 
days,  and  had  built  the  beautiful  manor  house 
which  their  new,  wonderfully  kind  neighbors, 
the  Carsons,  recently  had  bought.  Azalea's 
mother  had  exiled  herself  by  a  marriage  with  a 
man  of  whom  no  parent  could  approve,  and  as 
misfortune  drove  her  ever  lower  and  lower,  she 


TWO  AND  ONE  15 

came  at  length  to  be  a  performer  in  the  miserable 
roadside  show  with  which  she  had  come,  in  her 
last  hour,  to  the  scene  of  her  father's  old  home. 
That  home  had  long  since  passed  into  other 
hands,  and  concerning  it  Azalea's  mother  had 
told  her  daughter  nothing.  It  had  been  by  an 
accident  that  she  later  learned  the  truth. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carson,  the  friends  who 
had  from  the  first  of  their  acquaintance  with  her 
endeavored  to  add  to  her  happiness,  learned  her 
story,  they  asked  her  to  come  into  their  home 
to  be  a  sister  to  their  own  girl,  Carin.  And 
Azalea  in  her  secret  heart  had  longed  to  go — ■ 
more  than  she  ever  would  have  told,  she  longed 
to  be  with  these  accomplished  and  gracious 
friends,  whose  wealth  made  it  possible  for  them 
to  do  almost  anything  they  pleased,  and  who 
seemed  pleased  to  do  only  interesting  things. 
But  when  she  remembered  the  welcome  that  had 
been  given  her  by  Mary  McBirney,  and  indeed, 
by  all  of  the  McBirney  family,  and  how  she  had, 
in  a  way,  taken  the  place  of  their  little  dead 
Molly,  she  was  able  to  put  temptation  from  her; 
and  the  hour  in  which  she  had  made  her  choice 
and  been  gathered  in  "Ma"  McBirney's  arms 
was  the  happiest  she  ever  had  known. 


i6    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

So,  though  she  was  born  Azalea  Knox,  the 
granddaughter  of  Colonel  Atherton,  she  was 
now  known  as  Azalea  McBirney,  the  waif  the 
McBirneys  had  taken  into  their  cabin  to  grow 
up  side  by  side  with  their  son  James  Stuart.  And 
all  over  the  Valley  of  Lee  an  interest  was  felt 
in  her;  partly  because  of  her  being  an  orphan, 
and  a  child  of  quaint  and  lovable  ways,  and 
partly  because  of  a  strange  happening.  Not 
long  after  she  had  come  to  live  with  the  good 
mountain  folk,  the  owner  of  the  show  with  which 
she  had  once  traveled  had  kidnapped  her,  and 
the  search  for  her  had  been  long  and  anxious. 

When  she  was  rescued  and  brought  back  to 
the  home  where  she  was  so  welcomed  and  loved, 
all  of  the  neighbors  had  a  protective  feeling  for 
her,  and  rejoiced  that  the  Carsons,  who  had  come 
down  from  the  North,  and  who  seemed  so  eager 
to  be  of  help  to  everybody,  should  have  taken  her 
in  to  be  taught  with  their  daughter.  Never  had 
there  been  such  neighbors  as  the  Carsons  in  Lee. 
They  made  goodness  their  business,  it  seemed. 
Through  them  the  mountain  folk  were  finding 
a  market  for  their  homemade  wares — their 
woven  cloth  and  their  counterpanes,  their  bas- 
kets and  chairs,  and  comfort  had  come  into  many 


TWO  AND  ONE  17 

a  home  where  hitherto  there  had  been  cruel 
poverty. 

But  there  on  the  bench  by  the  doorway  in  the 
nipping  morning  air  sits  Azalea,  with  her  nose 
and  ears  growing  redder  and  redder! 

"Jim,"  she  called,  awakening  from  her  rev- 
erie, "we'll  be  late  as  sure  as  anything." 

"Coming  right  along  now,  sis,"  answered  the 
boy  as  he  came  running  from  the  stable  with  the 
two  ponies.  "Hop  into  the  saddle,  Zalie,  and 
we'll  just  pelt  it  down  the  mountain.  Here,  I'll 
hold  him.    There  you  are.    Hi — they're  off." 

They  surely  were.  Pa  McBirney,  busy  in  his 
little  smithy,  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  thrust 
his  head  from  the  door. 

"Watch  out,  you  two !"  he  warned. 

"We  will,"  they  called  in  chorus  as  they 
dashed  on. 

"My  sakes,"  said  pa,  coming  in  from  the  shop 
and  wiping  his  hands  on  his  leathern  apron,  "I 
trust  to  luck  ma  didn't  see  'em  going  off.  Them 
young  uns  are  getting  too  much  spirit  in  'em  to 
suit  me ;  and  as  for  the  ponies,  I  think  they  ought 
to  be  cut  down  on  their  feed." 

But  neither  Azalea  nor  James  Stuart  was 
wanting  anyone  to  cut  down  on  anything.     As 


i8    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

the  firm-footed  ponies  took  the  cut-offs,  minding 
neither  curve  nor  steep,  the  children  shouted 
with  delight. 

*'Late?"  yelled  Jim  mockingly.  "Who  said 
late?    We  couldn't  be  late  if  we  tried." 

They  reached  the  parting  of  their  ways,  and 
Azalea,  who  was  leading,  turned  in  her  saddle 
to  wave  to  Jim. 

"Good-bye,  boy,"  she  called. 

"So  long,  sis,"  he  answered,  and  turned  to  fol- 
low the  creek,  and  then  to  mount  the  hill  at  the 
top  of  which  stood  the  district  school.  But 
Azalea  kept  on  along  the  low-winding  road  till 
she  came  to  The  Shoals,  from  whose  four  tall 
chimneys  the  smoke  mounted  into  the  tinted  air. 
Benjamin,  the  polite  black  boy,  was  at  the  horse- 
block to  help  her  dismount  and  to  lead  away 
Paprika,  her  pony;  and  Tulula  Darthula,  the 
maid,  opened  the  door  to  welcome  her.  Azalea 
spoke  a  laughing  word  of  greeting  and  ran  on 
down  the  corridor  to  the  schoolroom. 

It  was  a  small  room,  semicircular  in  shape, 
opening  on  the  wintry  garden.  The  rounding 
portion  of  the  wall  was  all  of  glass,  which  in 
summer  time  gave  way  to  screens,  so  that  it  then 
seemed  an  actual  part  of  the  garden.    Now,  the 


TWO  AND  ONE  19 

polished  panes  reflected  the  flames  leaping  in 
the  fireplace,  and  revealed  the  frost-fringed 
hemlocks  without.  Before  the  fire  sat  Miss 
Parkhurst,  the  quiet,  gray-eyed  governess,  and 
with  her,  Carin,  the  friend  whose  approval  was 
more  to  Azalea  than  anything  else  in  the  world 
save  the  love  of  the  new  "mother." 

"Oh,  here  I  am,  late!"  cried  Azalea  contritely. 
"Please  forgive  me,  ma'am." 

Helena  Parkhurst  gave  a  pardoning  smile. 

"I  really  think  we're  ahead  of  time  this  morn- 
ing— Carin  and  I.  Take  off  your  things,  child, 
and  come  up  to  the  fire.  We've  been  trying  to 
have  it  at  its  best  when  you  came." 

But  Azalea's  fingers,  stiffened  with  holding 
the  bridle  reins,  made  sorry  work  with  her  but- 
tons, and  Carin  flew  to  her  aid. 

"You  smell  like  winter.  Azalea,"  she  laughed, 
snifling;  "all  cold  and  clean." 

Azalea  laughed  happily.  Whatever  this  blue- 
eyed,  golden-haired  friend  of  hers  did  seemed 
right  to  her — nay,  better  than  merely  right — 
complete.  It  warmed  Azalea  more  than  the 
glow  of  the  room  to  have  Carin  snatch  her  cap 
from  her,  and  pull  her  reefer  off,  and  tumble 


20    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

her  with  affectionate  roughness  into  the  chair 
before  the  blaze.  ' 

"Colonial  history  again  this  morning,"  said 
Miss  Parkhurst  after  a  time.  "We're  to  read 
about  the  Delaware  and  the  Virginia  Colonies, 
since  Carin's  ancestors  came  from  the  first  and 
Azalea's  from  the  second." 

"Well,  they'll  be  different  enough,  won't 
they?"  remarked  Carin.  "They  were  different 
sort  of  folk  before  they  crossed  the  Atlantic,  and 
their  differences  grew  after  they  settled  here. 
And  yet  here  Azalea  and  I  are,  as  alike  as  can 
be." 

"But  I  don't  think  the  differences  of  the  col- 
onists grew,  Carin,"  said  Azalea,  "and  I'm  ter- 
ribly afraid  you  and  I  aren't  alike.  I  couldn't 
be  like  you  if  I  tried  for  ever  and  ever."  She 
gave  a  wistful  sigh,  and  Miss  Parkhurst,  watch- 
ing her  without  seeming  to  do  so,  saw  the  light 
of  hero-worship  in  her  eyes.  She  knew  that 
Azalea  was  one  of  those  who  are  born  to  love 
hungrily,  and  to  live  eagerly;  and  she  was  thank- 
ful that,  having  so  hungry  a  heart,  she  was  able, 
when  it  came  to  a  matter  of  opinion,  to  form  her 
own  ideas,  and  to  hold  to  them.  Azalea's  heart 
was  in  leading  strings  to  Carin,  but  her  excellent 


TWO  AND  ONE  21 

little  brain  went  on  its  independent  way,  though 
Carin  had  traveled  and  studied,  and  been  all  her 
life  with  charming  and  cultivated  people,  and 
Azalea  had  been  tended  no  more  than  a  patch  of 
wayside  daisies. 

Miss  Parkhurst  brought  the  books  they  were 
needing  from  the  library,  and  Carin  taking  hers, 
sighed  happily:  "Isn't  it  beautiful  to  be  here 
by  ourselves — just  the  three  of  us?  No  one  else 
would  fall  into  our  way  of  doing.  How  nice  it 
is  of  you.  Miss  Parkhurst,  to  let  us  follow  up 
whatever  idea  w^'re  interested  in,  and  to  help 
us  learn  all  we  can  about  that  subject,  instead  of 
making  us  dash  from  one  thing  to  another,  till 
we  haven't  a  notion  what  we  are  trying  to  learn. 
I'd  never  get  anywhere,  studying  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way,  jumping  from  subject  to  subject, 
and  having  to  wait  for  a  whole  class  of  stupid 
creatures  to  come  tagging  along." 

"But  you  might  be  the  stupid  one,  you  know, 
Carin,"  smiled  Miss  Parkhurst.  "I'm  afraid  it 
doesn't  do  to  go  around  the  world  supposing 
yourself  to  be  the  cleverest  one." 

Carin  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"I  don't  think  that,"  she  said.  "I  always  think 
Azalea  the  cleverest  one.     I'm  only  saying  that 


22     ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

we  three  understand  each  other,  and  that  we 
don't  have  to  spend  half  our  time  explaining, 
and  that  we're  just  as  contented  together  as  mor- 
tals can  be." 

And  just  then  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Car- 
son came  into  the  room.  Her  face  had  lost  some- 
thing of  the  look  of  transparency  it  had  worn 
when  she  first  came  to  Lee,  when  she  had  been 
fresh  from  a  terrible  sorrow,  but  it  was  still  pale 
and  strangely  tender  to  Azalea's  admiring  eyes. 

"I  do  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  Miss  Parkhurst," 
she  said  in  her  soft  voice,  "for  breaking  into  the 
study  hour.  But  I've  something  important  to 
talk  over,  and  so  I've  come  while  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  academy  are  together." 

She  shook  hands  with  Azalea  as  she  spoke, 
and  patted  Carin  caressingly  on  the  shoulder. 

"I've  come,"  she  went  on,  "to  talk  to  you  about 
taking  in  another  girl." 

"Another  girl!"  cried  Carin  in  dismay.  "What 
girl,  please,  mamma?"  She  had  sprung  to  her 
feet,  and  stood  before  her  mother  with  the  color 
sweeping  over  her  face;  but  Azalea,  keeping  her 
thoughts  to  herself,  grew  paler,  and  pinched  the 
edge  of  the  table  in  her  effort  to  keep  the  tears 


TWO  AND  ONE  23 

of  vexation  and  disappointment  from  coming  to 
her  eyes. 

Another  girl!  And  this  perfect  possession  of 
Carin  would  be  taken  from  her,  and  there'd  be, 
as  Carin  put  it,  need  to  "explain"  all  of  the  time. 
How  could  Mrs.  Carson  spoil  such  a  perfect 
thing  as  their  association  there?  Who  else  would 
love  to  study,  and  to  write,  and  paint  and  sing 
the  way  they  did?  Who  else  would  make  a 
game  out  of  it  all,  and  long  to  get  to  the  school- 
room in  the  morning  and  hate  to  leave  at  night? 

"It's  Annie  Laurie  Pace,"  went  on  Mrs.  Car- 
son, apparently  taking  no  heed  of  their  misery. 
"Have  you  met  her?  Perhaps  not,  since  she 
goes  to  the  Baptist  Meeting  House,  and  you, 
Azalea,  are  such  a  faithful  young  Methodist, 
and  Carin  goes  with  me  to  the  Episcopal 
Church.  But  anyway,  I  think  you  must  have 
seen  her — a  tall  girl,  with  red  hair.  She's  been 
helping  me  some  at  The  Mountain  Industries 
rooms,  and  I've  become  well  acquainted  with 
her.  She's  ahead  of  anything  she  can  get  at  the 
district  school.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  that  she 
couldn't  do  more  mathematics  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  I  am  convinced  that  she  has  a  strength 
and  originality  of  thought  which  is  very  un- 


24    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

usual.  She  came  here  this  morning  to  borrow 
some  books  I  had  offered  to  lend  her,  and  I 
have  been  talking  with  her  for  the  last  hour. 
I  am  so  convinced  that  the  work  here  under 
Miss  Parkhurst  and  with  you  two  shining  little 
stars  will  give  her  precisely  what  she  is  hunger- 
ing for,  that  I  have  invited  her  to  join  you." 

"But,  mamma,"  expostulated  Carin,  "we'll  be 
wretched  with  her!  She's  a  nice  enough  girl, 
I'm  sure,  and  no  doubt  she's  bright,  but  she'll 
never  be  able  to  really  understand  Azalea  and 
me,  will  she,  Azalea?" 

Azalea  said  nothing.  She  was  dreadfully  em- 
barrassed. She  was  wondering  if  Mrs.  Carson 
had  some  secret  reason  for  forcing  another  girl 
in  with  them?  Could  it  possibly  be  that  she — 
Azalea — who  had  been-  a  wandering  child,  trav- 
eling with  coarse  people  in  a  low  circus,  was, 
without  knowing  it,  doing  harm  to  Carin?  Per- 
haps. Carin  was  so  fine,  so  gay,  so  sweet,  so  "like 
a  flower"  as  the  song  had  it  which  Mrs.  Carson 
sang,  that  very  likely  she  seemed  no  more  than 
a  weed  beside  her. 

"Probably  that  is  all  I  am — a  horrid,  stupid 
weed,"  said  Azalea  to  herself  bitterly  as  her 


TWO  AND  ONE  25 

thoughts  flashed  this  way  and  that  like  troubled 
birds,  seeking  for  what  was  wrong. 

"You  can  see  how  Azalea  hates  the  idea,  mam- 
ma," said  Carin.  "And  as  for  me,  if  that  girl 
comes  in  here,  my  education  will  be  ruined." 

She  looked  a  haughty  and  determined  young 
person  as  she  stood  there,  her  chin  lifted  and  her 
blue  eyes  darting  cold  fires.  Mrs.  Carson  had  a 
twinkle  in  her  eye  as  she  surveyed  her.  Carin 
had  been  a  gentle  princess  in  the  schoolroom, 
with  Miss  Parkhurst  for  her  willing  guide  and 
Azalea  her  adoring  servitor.  The  truth  was,  the 
two  girls  had  become  so  bound  up  in  each  other 
that  they  saw  nothing  beyond  their  own  horizon. 
The  dark-eyed  girl  from  the  mountain  cabin, 
with  her  strange,  romantic  history,  and  the  blue- 
eyed  one  from  the  mansion,  loving  romance 
above  all  imaginable  things,  had  made  a  com- 
pact of  undying  friendship;  and  unconsciously, 
they  had  also  determined  to  exclude  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

"It  may  seem  a  little  hard  for  you  and  Azalea 
to  take  Annie  Laurie  in  just  at  first,  Carin,"  Mrs. 
Carson  went  on,  with  no  show  of  yielding — in- 
deed, quite  as  if  everything  were  settled — "but 
she  desperately  needs  the  schooling,  and  I  be- 


26    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

lieve  that,  without  realizing  it,  you  need  her. 
What  do  you  think,  Miss  Parkhurst;  am  I 
right?" 

To  the  increasing  dismay  of  the  friends,  Hel- 
ena Parkhurst  nodded  her  nice  little  head. 

*'One  of  the  chief  reasons  why  a  girl  should 
go  to  school,"  went  on  Mrs.  Carson,  smilingly, 
"is  to  learn  to  get  along  with  other  girls.  You 
and  Azalea  are  so  wrapped  up  in  each  other 
that  you  actually  don't  see  other  girls  as  they 
pass  you  on  the  road,  and  it  never  seems  to  occur 
to  you  to  visit  their  homes,  or  to  ask  them  here. 
It  has  been  borne  in  upon  me  for  some  time  that 
if  I  don't  watch  out,  you'll  become  a  pair  of  hor- 
rid little  snobs.  Of  course  you  wouldn't  know 
that  you  were,  and  equally  of  course  I  wouldn't 
admit  it  to  anybody  else.  But  such  would  be  the 
case,  I  feel  sure." 

"Oh,  mother,  we  wouldn't,  we  w^ouldn't!" 
protested  Carin.    "Just  try  us  a  little  longer  and 


see." 


But  at  that  moment  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Mrs.  Carson  arose  to  open  it.  The 
girls  could  see  without  in  the  hallway  the  figure 
of  Annie  Laurie  Pace,  the  red-haired,  surpris- 
ingly tall  girl  whom  they  had  occasionally  seen 


TWO  AND  ONE  27 

in  town;  and  now  it  occurred  to  each  of  them 
that  they  had  not  particularly  w^ished  to  know 
her. 

"Did  you  say  I  was  to  come  dow^n  here,  Mrs. 
Carson,  after  I  had  found  that  book?"  she  asked 
shyly. 

"Why,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Carson  impulsively,  "I 
didn't  say  that,  Annie  Laurie,  but  now  that  you 
are  here,  come  in  and  meet  my  daughter  and  her 
friend." 

She  entered  with  a  quiet  dignity,  and  it  took 
but  one  second  for  Carin  and  Azalea  to  see  that 
here  would  be  no  timid  imitator  of  their  whims. 
If  "follow-my-leader"  was  played,  it  was  not  at 
all  certain  that  they  would  be  in  the  fore. 

"Carin,"  said  Mrs.  Carson,  recovering  herself 
from  a  moment's  embarrassment,  "make  your 
new  schoolmate  w^elcome.  Annie  Laurie  Pace, 
Azalea  McBirney." 

Carin  held  out  a  chilly  white  hand. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said  stiffly. 

Azalea  arose  and  gave  her  hand  to  the  new 
girl.  She  had  been  a  stranger  herself — had  many 
a  time  been  among  men  and  women  unknown  to 
her,  waiting  wistfully  to  see  if  she  would  be 
welcomed — and  she  understood,  as  Carin  could 


28    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

not  possibly,  what  brought  the  veiled  look  in  the 
new  girl's  eyes.  Yet  she  could  not  venture  to 
offend  Carin — her  own  Carin,  whose  ways  al- 
ways seemed  charming  to  her. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  echoed.  "I — I  hope 
you  are  well,  Annie  Laurie.  This — this  is  a 
very — pleasant  school." 

The  words  stuck  in  her  throat,  and  she  was 
ashamed  to  find  how  much  she  wanted  to  cry. 

The  new  girl  looked  toward  Mrs.  Carson. 

"Ought  I  to  stay,  ma'am?"  she  asked.  "You 
know  I  could  manage  at  the  other  school  some 
way.    Wouldn't  it  be  better  if — " 

"You  will  do  us  a  favor  if  you  stay  with  us," 
Mrs.  Carson  said.  And:  "Yes,  stay,  my  dear," 
urged  Helena  Parkhurst,  making  the  girls  real- 
ize for  the  first  time  that  Annie  Laurie  had  not 
been  presented  to  Miss  Parkhurst,  and  that  the 
two  must  have  been  acquainted  before.  How 
long,  the  girls  wondered,  had  this  conspiracy 
been  in  the  air?  Had  it  really  been  decided  only 
that  morning? 

"Will  you  take  up  your  studies  to-day,  then, 
Annie  Laurie?"  Miss  Parkhurst  asked.  "Mrs. 
Carson,  do  you  think  her  father  would  object?" 

"I  can  telephone  him,"  Mrs.  Carson  replied. 


TWO  AND  ONE  29 

"We  already  have  had  some  conversation  about 
the  matter.  He  has  been  thinking  of  sending 
Annie  Laurie  away  to  school,  but  to  do  such  a 
thing,  he  said,  would  leave  him  very,  very  lonely, 
since  Annie  Laurie  is  his  only  child." 

"Oh,  it  could  be  managed,"  the  girl  broke  in. 
"I  know  it  could,  but — " 

Mrs.  Carson  raised  a  white  hand. 

"It  will  be  quite  all  right,"  she  said  with  gen- 
tle firmness.  "Miss  Parkhurst,  you  have  three 
pupils." 

She  withdrew  smilingly;  and  in  spite  of  the 
leaping  flame  in  the  fireplace,  and  the  sunshine 
stealing  like  pale  gold  in  at  the  window,  a  chill 
settled  down  over  the  room.  It  crept  into  the 
farthermost  corners,  and  gleamed  cold  as  little 
bergs  from  the  eyes  of  the  three  girls. 

The  three  girls? 

There  were  two  girls — and  one  girl.  And  the 
sum  was  not  yet  three. 


CHAPTER  II 

ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE 

Annie  Laurie  Pace  was  making  ready  for 
church. 

Her  Sunday  frock  of  dark  blue  serge  lay  on 
the  bed;  her  silk  petticoat  rustled  as  she  stepped 
briskly  about  the  room;  and  her  heavy  coat  and 
gloves,  and  her  hat  with  the  ostrich  plumes, 
were  primly  awaiting  her  need.  All  was  durable 
about  her  clothing,  and  orderly  within  the  room. 

A  very  clean  room  it  was,  somewhat  bare  and 
bleak,  with  a  ceiling  too  high  for  its  size.  The 
floor  was  uncarpeted,  the  walls  white  and  with- 
out pictures.  No  unnecessary  thing  was  in  sight 
— not  even  a  pretty  foolish  trinket  on  the  dresser. 
Through  the  windows  with  their  dark  green 
shades  Annie  Laurie  could  look  out  into  the 
dairy  yard  with  its  whitewashed  houses.  Beyond 
stretched  the  pastures  in  which  grazed  the  fine 
herd  that  was  the  pride  of  her  father,  Simeon 
Pace. 

Usually,  Annie  Laurie  sang  as  she  dressed  for 

30 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  31 

church.  She  had  a  warm  full  voice,  with  notes 
in  it  not  unlike  the  whistle  of  an  oriole.  But  this 
morning  no  song  came  from  her  lips.  She  had  a 
set,  almost  stern  look;  her  chin  came  out  a  little 
farther  than  was  necessary,  and  there  was  battle 
in  her  eye. 

Her  aunts,  dressing  in  the  next  room,  spoke 
of  it. 

"Annie  Laurie  is  not  herself,"  declared  Miss 
Adnah  to  Miss  Zillah.  "I  can  see  that  she  is  ter- 
ribly put  about.  I  do  hope  and  pray  that  we 
haven't  made  a  mistake  in  letting  her  leave  the 
district  school  and  go  in  with  Carin  Carson  and 
that  other  girl.  It  looks  to  me  as  if  Mrs.  Carson 
was  the  only  person  that  wanted  her — except, 
perhaps,  the  governess,  Miss  Parkhurst — and 
staying  where  we're  not  w^anted  is  not  a  thing 
that  we  could  ever  put  up  with,  we  Paces." 

"Don't  worry  about  Annie  Laurie,  sister," 
replied  Miss  Zillah,  setting  her  queer  lid-like 
hat  on  her  short  gray  curls.  "She  made  the 
change  of  her  own  free  will,  remember.  She's 
run  up  against  a  stone  wall  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  and  I'll  be  interested  to  see  v/hether 
she  climbs  over  or  burrows  under  it.  Those  two 
girls  she's  studying  with  don't  like  her — or  at 


32    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

least  they  don't  like  to  have  her  intruding  on 
them.  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  them  very  much. 
There  they  were,  enjoying  each  other's  society, 
and  in  comes  a  stranger  and  thrusts  them  apart, 
you  may  say.  Annie  Laurie  is  as  unlike  them  as 
she  can  be — quite  of  a  different  class,  indeed." 

Miss  Adnah  snapped  the  fasteners  of  her 
gloves  sharply. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  different  class,  sis- 
ter?" she  said  reprovingly.  "Is  it  possible  you 
consider  the  Paces  inferior  to  anyone  in  this  com- 
munity?" 

"Now,  Adnah  dear,  I  didn't  say  anything 
about  inferiority.  I  spoke  of  a  difference.  What 
the  Paces  know,  they've  mostly  taught  them- 
selves; and  what  they  have,  they've  honestly 
earned.  They're  proud  of  it.  But  they're  no 
prouder  of  being  what  they  are — well-to-do,  re- 
liable, respectable  members  of  the  community — 
than  the  Carsons  are  of  being  highly  cultivated, 
rich,  much-traveled  gentle-folk,  or  the  McBir- 
neys  of  being  industrious,  independent  mountain 
people.  The  truth  is,  Adnah,  if  there  were  fewer 
kinds  of  pride  in  this  community,  and  less  of 
each  kind,  it  would  be  a  better  thing." 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  33 

"The  team  is  up,  aunts,"  called  Annie  Laurie 
in  her  clear  voice. 

"Very  well,  child;  we  are  ready,"  came  the 
reply. 

Of  course  they  wxre  ready.  It  was  seldom, 
indeed,  that  anyone  in  that  house  kept  anyone 
else  waiting.  Simeon  Pace,  holding  his  fine 
large  grays  in  check,  knew  almost  to  a  second 
how  long  before  the  front  door  would  open  and 
three  tall,  upright  figures  emerge.  And  this 
morning  was  no  exception.  At  the  right  instant 
his  sisters,  in  their  well-preserved  cloaks,  came 
out  together,  followed  by  his  daughter.  The 
door  was  locked,  the  key  placed  in  the  crotch 
of  the  sycamore,  the  aunts  were  helped  to  their 
places  by  Annie  Laurie's  strong  arms  and  then 
she  swung  herself  into  the  seat  beside  her  father, 
and  took  the  reins  from  his  hands.  As  she  did  so, 
she  happened  to  hit  her  father's  left  arm,  which 
gave  forth  a  sound  like  the  rattling  of  an  eave 
trough  in  the  wind. 

And  truth  to  tell,  it  was  made  of  the  same  ma- 
terial, for  where  Simeon  Pace's  muscular  mem- 
ber of  flesh  and  blood  had  once  swung,  there  now 
was  an  unjointed  tin  substitute  for  it,  hollow  as 
a  drum.    An  ill-advised  visit  to  a  sawmill  five 


34    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

years  before  was  responsible  for  this  defect, 
which  indeed,  might  have  been  all  but  concealed 
had  Mr.  Pace  been  willing  to  buy  one  of  the 
excellent  modern  imitations  of  an  arm.  His  sis- 
ters and  his  daughter  continually  urged  him  to 
do  this,  but  Simeon  said  that  his  tin  arm  had 
helped  him  when  his  trouble  was  new,  and  that 
he  refused  to  throw  it  on  the  trash  heap  as  a  re- 
ward for  faithful  service.  It  was  nothing  to  him 
that  his  gestures  startled  nervous  folk.  He  re- 
mained loyal  to  his  battered,  awkward  tin  con- 
venience, and  seemed  to  take  an  innocent  joy  in 
waving  it  in  the  air,  offering  it  as  a  support  to 
old  ladies,  and  sawing  it  up  and  down  when  he 
became  excited.  All  the  Paces  were  indepen- 
dent and  Simeon  was  the  most  independent  of 
them  all. 

He  led  his  women  folk  well  up  to  the  front 
of  the  church  and  eyed  them  with  critical 
kindness  as  they  filed  past  him  into  the  pew,  con- 
fident that  their  thoughts  would  not  wander  from 
the  preacher's  words  during  the  service.  So  it  was 
good  for  his  fatherly  satisfaction  that  he  did  not 
look  into  his  daughter's  mind,  for  barely  a  sen- 
tence of  the  sermon  did  she  hear  that  day.  Her 
thoughts  were  slipping  back  and  forth  like  shut- 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  35 

ties  in  a  loom.  The  past  week  in  Mrs.  Carson's 
home  has  been  a  strange — and  in  some  ways,  a 
distressing — one.  True,  never  had  she  learned 
so  much  in  so  short  a  space  of  time.  If  she  asked 
a  question  everyone  tried  to  answer  it.  Little  as 
the  other  two  girls  had  seemed  to  like  her,  when 
it  came  to  a  question  of  ideas,  they  paid  instant 
and  warm  attention.  An  idea  was  an  idea  with 
them,  and  entitled  to  respect. 

If  the  combined  wit  of  Miss  Parkhurst  and 
her  pupils  failed  to  supply  a  good  answer  to  an 
inquiry,  plenty  of  books  were  at  hand  to  consult, 
and  as  a  last  reference,  there  were  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Carson,  who  seemed  to  have  been  almost  every- 
where and  to  know  something  about  almost 
everything.  As  Annie  Laurie  had  heard  them 
talk,  speaking  with  interest  about  all  manners 
of  people,  her  little  local  standards  began  to  van- 
ish like  mist  before  the  sun.  For  the  first  time 
it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  Lee,  North  Caro- 
lina, was  not  the  center  of  civilization.  All  the 
world,  it  appeared,  was  full  of  interest — full  of 
good  neighborly  folk.  All  one  had  to  do  was  to 
learn  their  language  to  find  out  how  very  nice 
they  really  were.    It  was  such  a  new  and  bril- 


36    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

liant  idea  to  Annie  Laurie  that  it  almost  dazzled 
her. 

She  had  been  used  to  thinking  herself  a  bright 
girl — a  girl  who  could  keep  at  the  head  of  her 
classes — so  it  was  but  natural  in  those  first  angry 
hours  when  she  raged  at  the  cold  reception  Carin 
and  Azalea  had  given  her,  that  she  should  have 
thought:  *'Just  wait  till  we  get  down  to  lessons, 
and  then  I'll  show  them." 

But  to  her  surprise,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
"show  them."  Carin  and  Azalea  did  not  attack 
their  studies  so  fiercely  as  she  did.  They  seemed 
to  make  more  of  a  game  of  them  and  less  of  a 
task.  They  laughed  over  things  that  puzzled  her. 
But  for  all  that  they  were  clever,  and  it  did  not 
seem  strange  to  them  that  Annie  Laurie  should 
be  clever  too.  Her  cleverness,  as  they  knew,  was 
Mrs.  Carson's  excuse  for  asking  her  to  join  them. 
After  that  first  chilly  day  they  had  been  polite 
enough.  But  they  somehow  put  her  in  the 
wrong.  She  felt  awkward  and  strange.  She 
fatally  said  the  wrong  thing — or  the  right  thing 
in  the  wrong  place.  Even  her  clothes  had  seemed 
stiff  and  unlovely  beside  theirs,  though  they  were 
of  good  material  and  honestly  and  thoroughly 
made.     However,  as  Annie  Laurie  had  more 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  37 

than  once  reflected,  their  clothes  were  made  for 
them  by  their  mothers,  who  asked  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  see  them  looking  their  best.  That 
Mary  McBirney  w^as  not  really  Azalea's  mother 
made  no  difference — she  loved  Azalea  almost  as 
much,  judging  from  what  Azalea  said. 

Annie  Laurie  stole  a  glance  at  her  two  excel- 
lent aunts — always  so  really  kind  and  just  to 
her — but  rather  stern,  like  her  father.  The 
Paces  seldom  laughed;  they  almost  never  kissed 
each  other;  they  said  what  they  thought — and 
they  quite  lacked  that  pretty  foolishness  which 
Mrs.  Carson  sometimes  indulged  in  with  Carin. 

Annie  Laurie  could  remember  that  her  own 
mother  had  been  something  like  Mrs.  Carson. 
It  was  she  who  had  given  her  the  name  after  the 
sweet  old  song.  She  had  laughed  and  danced 
and  sung,  and  the  aunts  had  not  quite  liked  it,  al- 
though they  mourned  her  deeply  when  she  died, 
still  in  her  youth.  And  they  had  treasured  as 
keepsakes  the  things  which  had  been  hers. 

But  what  was  the  preacher  saying  all  this 
time?  Something  about  Ananias  and  the  doom 
which  overtook  him  because  of  his  lies.  It  was 
not  a  subject  in  which  she  could  feel  much  in- 
terest. Sometimes,  up  at  her  house  they  suffered 


38    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

from  too  much  truth  telling — hard,  cold  truth 
telling — but  not  a  soul  of  them  would  have  been 
guilty  of  a  lie. 

"Plant  a  lie  in  the  garden  of  your  soul,"  said 
the  minister,  "and  it  will  flourish  worse  than  any 
poisonous  weed.  And  do  not  think  that  you  can 
uproot  it  when  you  will,  for  it  will  grow  and 
grow,  till  it  is  stronger  than  you,  and  not  all  your 
prayers  and  tears  can  tear  it  out  of  your  life." 

Annie  Laurie  wondered  why  he  should  be 
talking  like  that  to  those  friendly,  good  neigh- 
bors, who  seemed  to  be  doing  the  best  they  could* 
from  morning  till  night.  She  wished  he  would 
talk  about  something  that  would  help  her 
through  the  coming  week,  for  she  dreaded  going 
back  with  those  girls  who  did  not  like  her.  Why 
couldn't  preachers  know  what  was  going  on  in 
the  back  of  one's  mind?  She  looked  up  wearily 
and  met  the  gaze  of  "that  Disbrow  boy,"  as  her 
aunts  always  called  Sam  Disbrow,  the  son  of  the 
undertaker.  For  some  reason  they  did  not  like 
him.  They  "had  no  use  for  the  whole  kit  and 
b'ilin'  of  Disbrows."  Yet,  someway,  Annie 
Laurie,  though  she  had  grown  up  with  this  senti- 
ment ringing  in  her  ears,  thought  Sam  Disbrow 
rather  a  nice  boy.    At  this  moment  he  seemed  to 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  39 

be  as  impatient  as  she  was  at  the  way  the  minister 
was  scolding  about  liars.  Evidently  liars  failed 
to  interest  Sam,  also. 

It  happened  that  Annie  Laurie  and  Sam  were 
near  together  as  the  people  came  out  of  church, 
and  while  the  rest  stood  talking  in  the  bright 
winter  sunshine,  they  talked,  too. 

"How  are  you  liking  it  at  your  new  school, 
Annie  Laurie?"  he  inquired. 

The  girl  flushed  hotly — it  was  easy  for  a  per- 
son with  such  white  skin  as  Annie  Laurie's  to 
blush.  Sam  knew  this  and  made  allowances,  but 
he  saw  there  was  something  more  than  ordinary 
the  matter.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  half 
closing  his  eyes,  and  turning  his  head  a  little  on 
one  side  in  a  way  he  had. 

"They've  been  snubbing  you — those  girls!"  he 
declared.  "I  knew  they  would — knew  it  as  well 
as  anything." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  know  that,"  said 
Annie  Laurie  with  a  sudden  feeling  that  she 
ought  not  say  anything  against  Carin  and  Aza- 
lea. "They're  the  nicest  girls  I  ever  knew;  the 
nicest  girls  anywhere  about  here.  If  I  haven't 
been  able  to — to  make  them  understand  me,  it's 
my  own  fault,  I  suppose." 


40    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Sam.  "They're  not  nice  if 
they've  been  making  you  unhappy.  How  can 
you  let  them  do  it?  No  fellow  could  put  it  over 
me,  now,  I  tell  you.  If  he  didn't  treat  me  fair 
and  square,  I'd  have  it  out  with  him.  We'd 
soon  see  who  was  the  best  man." 

"Girls  don't  do  things  that  way,  Sam." 

"I  know  they  don't.  They  sit  around  and 
mope  and  sniff  and  feel  mean,  instead  of  mak- 
ing a  good  healthy  row.  I  didn't  think  you  were 
such  a  hypocrite." 

"Hypocrite?"  gasped  the  girl,  too  surprised 
to  feel  angry.    "How  am  I  a  hypocrite,  Sam?" 

"Because  you're  pretending  to  be  contented 
when  you  aren't.  You  probably  act  as  if  you 
liked  those  girls.  And  you  don't — you  can't— 
if  they're  snubby.  I  say,  stir  up  a  fuss.  Have  a 
row.  Tell  'em  what  you  think  of  'em.  That 
will  clear  the  air." 

"I'm  under  too  many  obligations  to  Mrs.  Car- 
son to  do  a  thing  like  that,  Sam." 

"Obligations!"  snorted  Sam.  "Nobody  is  un- 
der obligations  to  be  a  doormat." 

All  the  way  home  the  girl  kept  thinking  of 
what  Sam  Disbrow  had  said  to  her.  She  would 
have  liked  to  talk  the  whole  matter  over  with 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  41 

her  Aunt  Zillah,  but  something  held  her  back 
from  complaining  of  the  girls.  Deep  down  with- 
in her  was  the  feeling  that  if  only  she  could 
manage  right,  they  would  yet  be  friends,  true, 
"forever  and  forever"  friends.  If  that  should 
prove  to  be  so,  it  wouldn't  do  for  this  one  and 
that  one  to  be  remembering  that  she  had  criti- 
cised them. 

And  yet,  how  they  had  tormented  her  with 
their  way  of  seeing  and  yet  not  seeing  her,  and 
answering  and  yet  not  answering.  And  she  was 
lonely — desperately  lonely.  She  longed  to  see 
the  gleam  come  in  the  girls'  eyes  when  they 
looked  at  her,  which  they  turned  upon  each 
other.  All  the  long,  quiet  Sunday  afternoon  she 
thought  of  it,  though  she  tried  to  read.  She 
knew  Azalea  and  Carin  were  together,  for  she 
had  heard  them  planning  a  horseback  ride,  while 
she  was  alone,  and  as  she  told  herself  sadly,  likely 
to  be  alone  every  Sunday,  since  she  knew  no  one 
she  really  wished  to  be  with — save  those  two,  of 
course. 

She  had  an  hour  of  trying  to  hate  them,  but 
she  failed  miserably.  For  all  they  had  made  her 
suffer,  she  could  not  get  as  far  as  hating  them. 
She  failed  to  sleep  well  that  night.     Her  mind 


42    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

whirled  like  a  merry-go-round,  always  bringing 
back  the  same  thoughts  and  persons.  Azalea 
and  Carin,  Carin  and  Azalea.  The  bright  and 
charming  faces  kept  returning,  but  never  once 
did  they  seem  to  bear  the  smiles  of  friendship 
and  understanding. 

Naturally  she  was  far  from  being  herself  when 
she  went  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
and  when  her  Aunt  Adnah  said,  "You  see  to  it, 
Ann,  that  you're  not  put  upon  there  at  Mrs.  Car- 
son's," her  patience  snapped  like  a  wind-filled 
bag. 

"Oh,  please  leave  me  alone.  Aunt  Adnah," 
she  cried  hotly.  "I'll  take  care  of  myself  all 
right." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  murmured  Miss  Zillah, 
"ought  you  to  be  speaking  like  that  to  your  Aunt 
Adnah?" 

Annie  Laurie  knew  very  well  that  she  ought 
not,  and  she  was  morally  certain  that  if  Carin 
and  Azalea  could  have  heard  her,  they  would 
have  cried:  "There,  see!  You  call  her  a  nice 
girl?" 

Well,  maybe  she  wasn't  a  nice  girl,  but  cer- 
tainly she  was  an  unhappy  one. 

She  put  her  head  up  as  high  as  she  could  com- 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  43 

"  fortably  carry  it  on  her  very  slim  neck  and 
marched  away  to  school.  It  was  a  wonderful 
winter  morning — the  sort  that  got  into  the  blood 
of  horses  and  made  them  prance.  Perhaps  it 
was  in  Annie  Laurie's  blood,  too,  as  she  entered 
the  schoolroom  that  morning.  Miss  Parkhurst 
had  not  yet  come,  and  Carin  and  Azalea  sat  to- 
gether laughing  over  some  charts  of  the  South 
Sea  Isles.  Miss  Parkhurst  had  laid  out  an  in- 
teresting course  for  them,  all  relating  to  the 
Archipelago;  and  •  geography,  history,  biog- 
raphy, poetry  and  fiction  were  to  be  woven 
together  until  the  life  of  the  "burning  isles"  ap- 
peared before  them  in  a  series  of  vivid  mental 
pictures. 

If  Annie  Laurie  had  been  aware  of  the  amount 
of  explosive  material  in  her  brain  and  heart  that 
morning,  perhaps  she  would  have  had  the  dis- 
cretion to  remain  at  home.  She  really  was  about 
as  dangerous  as  a  keg  of  gunpowder,  and  it 
chanced  that  Carin's  first  words  were  as  a  match 
to  produce  the  inevitable  explosion. 

"I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  about  reading 
Stevenson's  'Ebb  Tide,'  would  you,  Annie 
Laurie?  Not,  I  mean,  as  a  part  of  the  South 
Sea  study?"    She  put  the  question  in  that  cold, 


44    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

detached  little  voice  which  she  had  used  from 
the  first  to  the  "new  girl."  "We  couldn't  expect 
a  thorough  person  like  yourself  to  enjoy  such  an 
unbusiness-like  way  of  getting  at  things.  I  said 
to  Miss  Parkhurst  that  probably  Azalea  and  I 
had  better  keep  that  for  reading  after  hours,  and 
during  school  we'll  study  any  old  Smithsonian 
Institute  reports  you  and  she  manage  to  look 

up." 

There  was  a  little  click  in  Annie  Laurie's 
throat,  but  no  spoken  word.  Carin,  looked  up, 
saw  the  anger  blazing  in  the  girl's  eyes,  and 
started  to  say  that  she  was  only  joking;  but  be- 
fore she  could  frame  the  words  Annie  Laurie 
found  her  tongue. 

"Why  wouldn't  I  like  to  read  Stevenson  as 
well  as  you  two?"  she  demanded.  "Why  do  you 
make  out  that  I  try  to  do  things  in  the  hard  and 
stupid  way?  You've  certainly  made  them  hard 
and  stupid  enough  for  me  the  past  week.  You're 
supposed  to  have  such  fine  manners,  and  Azalea 
is  thought  'so  sweet.'  I  haven't  seen  your  fine 
manner  or  her  sweetness.  I  imagined  it  was  go- 
ing to  be  lovely  here  with  you  two — that  my  life 
w^ould  grow  to  be  interesting  when  we  three  were 
friends.     Well,  perhaps  it  would — if  we  could 


ANNIE  LAURIE  PACE  45 

be  friends.  But  we  can't.  First,  because  you 
won't  be — and  second  because  I  won't.  I'm 
through.  I  shouldn't  have  come.  I'm  disgusted 
that  I  gave  you  a  chance  to  snub  me.  I'm  going 
now,  and  after  this  when  you  poke  fun  at  me 
you'll  have  to  do  it  behind  my  back." 

"Why — why — Annie  Laurie — "  gasped  Carin, 
"I  didn't  know—" 

But  Annie  Laurie  already  had  left  the  room 
and  was  stalking  down  the  corridor.  Carin  sank 
back  in  her  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  As  for  Azalea,  her  book  crashed  to  the 
floor. 

"Oh,  Carin,"  she  cried,  "what  have  we  done?" 

Miss  Parkhurst  still  was  absent,  but  if  she  had 
been  there,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  girls  would  have 
consulted  her.  The  battle  which  had  been  threat- 
ening all  week  was  on,  and  the  victory  at  pres- 
ent was,  oddly  enough,  with  the  fleeing  enemy. 

She  was  already  out  of  the  front  door  by  the 
time  Azalea  had  reached  the  hall;  and  once  she 
was  in  the  open,  her  dignity  deserted  her  and 
she  ran  toward  the  gate  as  if  fleeing  from  a  lava 
stream.  Azalea,  who  had  stopped  to  snatch  her 
cap  and  reefer,  reached  the  gate  only  to  see  her 


46    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

racing  along  the  road  as  fast  as  her  long  legs 
would  carry  her. 

Meantime,  Hi  Kitchell,  the  boy  who  had  trav- 
eled with  Azalea  in  those  old,  half-forgotten 
days,  and  who  was  now  happily  settled  with  his 
mother  and  "the  kids"  in  the  cabin  in  which  the 
Carsons  had  placed  them,  opened  his  sharp  eyes 
to  see  two  girls  racing  along  the  frozen  road, 
stumbling  over  hard  ruts,  and  then  plunging 
on  again.  He  knew  them  both — liked  Annie 
Laurie  and  swore  by  Azalea.  He  saw  the  anger 
in  the  first  girl's  face  and  the  anxiety  in  Azalea's 
every  gesture.  He  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him 
see  why,  if  Annie  Laurie  felt  like  that,  she  didn't 
turn  around  and  "baste"  Azalea.  But  if  she  did 
he'd  be  on  Azalea's  side  all  right  enough. 

Goodness,  how  they  were  running!  He  simply 
couldn't  stand  not  knowing  what  it  all  was  about. 
He  knew  it  was  none  of  his  business,  but  for  all 
of  that,  a  second  later  he  was  pelting  down  the 
road  after  them.  He  could  run  like  a  rabbit  and 
it  was  not  long  before  he  overtook  them. 

But  that  was  just  at  the  moment  when  Annie 
Laurie  reached  her  home  and,  dashing  in, 
slammed  the  door  behind  her;  and  Azalea,  pant- 
ing on  the  doorstep,  furiously  rang  the  bell. 


CHAPTER  III 

TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY 

Miss  Adnah  was  washing  dishes  in  her  spot- 
less kitchen  when  the  inner  door  burst  open  and 
a  wild-eyed  Annie  Laurie  stood  before  her. 

"Child!"  gasped  Miss  Adnah. 

Annie  Laurie  stood  panting  breathlessly,  her 
hands  on  her  sides,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"Well,  you  said  I  wasn't  to  let  myself  be  put 
upon,"  she  managed  to  say  at  length.  "So  I 
didn't.    I  had  my  say.    I'm  through  I" 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"I'm  through,"  she  went  on  shrilly.  "To-mor- 
row I'll  go  back  to  the  district  school.  The  other 
thing  wasn't  for  me." 

The  anger  in  her  eyes  began  to  give  way  In 
misery.  Miss  Adnah  stared  at  her,  trying  for 
once  to  get  at  the  girl's  point  of  view.  Then 
came  the  frantic  ringing  at  the  bell. 

"Mercy  on  us,"  cried  Miss  Adnah,  "what  can 
that  mean?" 

"Don't  go,  aunt.  Don't  you  go.  It's  Azalea 
McBirney.    She  followed  me.    You  mustn't — '* 

47 


48    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Stand  out  of  my  way,  Ann.  How  can  you  put 
yourself  between  me  and  the  door?  When  the 
bell  rings,  it  is  to  be  answered.  I  do  not  approve 
of  your  actions,  allow  me  to  say." 

But  just  then  the  breathless  voice  of  Azalea 
was  heard  in  the  hall.  Miss  Zillah  had  got  to 
the  door  before  them,  and  had  admitted  her. 

"Don't  try  to  talk,  my  dear,"  they  heard  Miss 
Zillah  saying.  "Whatever  it  is,  it  can  wait  till 
you  get  your  breath.  Come  in,  please,  and  sit 
down." 

In  the  kitchen,  Annie  Laurie  was  declaring 
that  whatever  came  she  would  not  go  into  the 
parlor. 

"I  won't  talk  the  matter  over,  that's  all,"  she 
said.  "It's  no  use  for  you  to  try  to  make  me  go 
in  there." 

Miss  Adnah  moved  back  from  her  niece  with 
a  look  of  displeasure. 

"You'd  better  quiet  down,  Ann,"  she  said 
severely.  "I  can't  imagine  what  you've  done  or 
what's  been  done  to  you,  but  I  do  feel  certain 
that  you  are  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole- 
hill." 

At  that  moment  something  bobbed  up  at  the 
window  and  then  bobbed  down  again. 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  49 

"Mercy,  what's  that?"  cried  Miss  Adnah. 

"A  head,"  said  Annie  Laurie  disgustedly. 

"Ahead!    Whose?" 

"Hi  Kitchen's.  He  must  have  seen  us  run- 
ning and  followed." 

"The  inquisitive  little  imp!  A  pretty  sight 
the  three  of  you  must  have  made.  Never  have  I 
heard  such  goings  on  in  the  house  of  Simeon 
Pace.  Let  me  pass,  Ann.  I  must  look  into  this 
matter." 

Annie  Laurie  never  yet  had  disobeyed  when 
her  aunt  spoke  in  that  manner,  and  she  stood 
aside,  lifting  her  eyebrows  with  annoyance  at 
the  "Ann"  which  was  the  sign  of  Miss  Adnah's 
displeasure.  She  began  to  grow  a  little  calmer, 
but  at  the  same  time  the  feeling  of  heaviness  at 
her  heart  increased.  It  actually  seemed  as  if  it 
had  turned  into  a  stone  and  was  dragging  her 
down.  And  worse  still,  there  was  a  hand  of 
iron  at  her  throat.  That  sharp  despair  of  the 
young  was  upon  her — that  foolish  despair,  which 
sees  no  way  out  of  hard  circumstance. 

Meantime  Miss  Adnah  had  gone  on  into  the 
hall.  She  had  meant  to  make  her  way  at  once 
into  that  grim  parlor  upon  which  her  best  efforts 
at  cleanliness  were  so  rigorously  expended,  but 


50    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

the  sound  of  voices  made  her  pause.  She  heard 
a  girl's  excited  voice  broken  by  tears. 

"Oh,  you're  Annie  Laurie's  aunt,  aren't  you?" 
said  the  voice.  "Which  aunt,  please?  Her  aunt 
Zillah?  Oh,  yes.  She  has  told  me  about  you. 
Oh,  Miss  Pace,  it's  so  dreadful!  We've  broken 
Annie  Laurie's  heart,  that's  what  we've  done. 
We  didn't  intend  it,  you  know.  It  came  about 
because — may  I  tell  you  everything?" 

"Yes,  tell  me  everything,"  answered  Miss  Zil- 
lah. 

"Of  course  Zillah  will  be  soft  with  her," 
thought  Miss  Adnah.  "She's  soft  with  every- 
body. I'd  like  to  go  in  and  shake  her — upsetting 
Annie  Laurie  like  that." 

There  were  long  panes  of  glass  running  down 
beside  the  front  hall  door,  and  at  this  moment 
the  ferret  face  of  Hi  Kitchell,  seamed  with  anx- 
iety, peered  in  one  of  them.  This  was  really 
too  much  for  Miss  Adnah.  She  rushed  to  the 
door  and  threw  it  open,  sending  Hi  off  backward 
into  the  althea  bush.  It  was  no  trick  at  all  for 
Miss  Adnah  to  stoop  and  pick  him  up  as  if  he 
were  a  slug. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  unmannerly,  prying 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  51 

boy?"  she  demanded.  "Peeking  in  folk's  win- 
dows, like  you  were  a  wild  Indian!" 

"Tell  me  what  you're  doing  to  Azalea," 
squealed  Hi  defiantly.  "Azalea's  all  right, 
ma'am.     I  don't  want  anything  done  to  her." 

"Well,  she  wasn't  invited  here  any  more  than 
you,"  snapped  Miss  Adnah,  dropping  him  on  the 
brick  walk.  "You  run  home  and  leave  us  to  con- 
duct our  own  affairs.    Hear?" 

"Oh,  aunt!"  Annie  Laurie  whispered  agoniz- 
ingly, "Azalea  will  hear  you." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  in  the  kitchen,  miss? 
You  seemed  very  anxious  not  to  leave  it  a  few 
minutes  ago.  I  won't  have  boys  looking  in  my 
windows." 

"But  it's  only  Hi.  He's  crazy  about  Azalea — 
like  her  little  brother,  you  know.  Azalea  will 
think  we're  dreadful." 

"Dreadful?  We  may  be  a  terror  to  evil  doers 
— well,  hear  that  telephone,  will  you?  Ringing 
like  mad.  Never  did  I  know  such  a  morning. 
No,  I'll  answer  it,  Ann.  Hello!  Hello!  Yes. 
The  Pace  residence.  Who?  Carin  Carson.  Very 
well,  what  is  it?  Yes,  Ann  is  home.  All  right? 
Of  course  she's  all  right.  Why  shouldn't  she  be? 
You  want  to  speak  to  her?    She's  busy  just  now.'* 


52    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Oh,  oh,  don't  speak  like  that,  aunt,"  implored 
Annie  Laurie.  "Not  in  that  tone  of  voice.  Let 
me  have  the  telephone,  Aunt  Adnah,  please — 
please.  I  was  bad,  honestly,  aunt — not  at  all  the 
way  I  ought  to  have  been.  Carin's  sorry,  I 
reckon." 

But  Miss  Adnah  had  hung  up  the  receiver, 
and  she  turned  toward  Annie  Laurie  with  a 
stormy  look  in  her  eye. 

"I  reckon  I  did  you  an  injustice,  Ann.  It 
must  have  been  something  pretty  bad  they  did  to 
you.  You  can  back  down  as  much  as  you  please, 
but  for  my  part  I  mean  to  teach  them  that  if 
they  think  they  can  fool  with  the  Paces,  they  are 
making  a  mistake." 

"But  my  child,"  the  clear  tones  of  Miss  Zillah 
could  be  heard  saying  from  the  drawing  room 
meantime,  "why  didn't  you  like  Annie  Laurie? 
She  seems  the  nicest  sort  of  a  girl  to  me.  I've 
taken  care  of  her — I  and  my  sister,  that  is — 
since  she  was  a  little  one,  and  she's  all  that  a 
daughter  should  be  to  us.  Of  course  I  realize 
that  we  may  not  have  succeeded  in  taking  her 
mother's  place  to  her.  That  was  hardly  to  have 
been  expected.  But  we  have  done  the  best  we 
could  for  her,  and  when  we  saw  her  coming  on 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  53 

in  school  so  splendidly,  and  realized  that  she 
was  likely  to  do  something  fine,  we  were  very 
proud  indeed.  I  can't  tell  you  how  grateful  we 
were  to  Mrs.  Carson  for  giving  her  a  chance  for 
special  instruction,  and  for  being  in  with  girls 
like  you  and  Miss  Carin.  But  we  saw  from  the 
first  that  something  was  going  wrong.  The  child 
seemed  too  excited  to  eat.  Once  or  twice  I've 
heard  her  cry  out  in  the  night — she  sleeps  next 
me,  and  after  she's  asleep  I  open  the  door  be- 
tween our  rooms  so  as  to  hear  if  anything  goes 
wrong." 

"And  a  very  silly  habit  it  is,"  muttered  Miss 
Adnah  from  the  hall. 

"Oh,  don't  say  any  more,  Miss  Pace,"  Azalea 
broke  in  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.  "If  anybody 
in  this  world  ought  to  have  been  good  to  Annie 
Laurie  it  is  myself,  for  I  haven't  any  mother, 
either,  you  know,  though  of  course  Mrs.  Mc- 
Birney  is  as  good  to  me  as  any  mother  could  be. 
I  can't  explain  the  way  we've  acted.  It  all  came 
about  from  Carin  and  myself  having  some  lovely 
secrets  together,  and  games  we  liked  to  play  that 
we  didn't  want  to  share  with  any  one.  And  we 
were  writing  poems,  and  Carin  was  painting  me. 
We  were  happy  in  each  other  all  the  time.  Then 


54    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Annie  Laurie  came  and — and  we  didn't  know 
her.  It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference  who 
the  girl  was  that  broke  in  on  us,  we  wouldn't 
have  liked  it.  Mrs.  Carson  said  we  were  getting 
selfish  and  snobbish,  and  I  suppose  we  were. 
And  Annie  Laurie  was  proud,  too — and — and 
well,  a  little — " 

"Say  it,  my  dear.  I  am  not  laboring  under  the 
delusion  that  Annie  Laurie  is  wearing  a  halo  on 
her  head." 

"Well,  sulky.  So  she  didn't  give  us  a  chance 
to  see  the — the  nice  side  which  she  simply  must 
have  since  you  love  her  so.  And  we  wouldn't 
show  ours  to  her.  We  were  all  stupid,  I  think. 
But  of  course  we  didn't  have  an  idea  how  she 
really  felt  until  this  morning  when  she  got  so 
angry.    And  then  I  was — was  just  paralysed." 

"You  talk  very  well,  my  child,  for  a  person 
suffering  with  paralysis.  I  can  see  very  well 
how  it  came  about,  however.  Now  may  I  ask 
why  you  came  here?" 

"To  say  how  sorry  we  were — and  to  beg  Annie 
Laurie  to  come  back  with  us." 

"But  have  you  the  right  to  do  this?  Did  Mrs. 
Carson  tell  you  to  come?" 

Azalea,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  very  edge 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  55 

of  Miss  Zillah's  horsechair  sofa,  now  got  to  her 
feet,  her  face  flaming  till  it  was  almost  as  red  as 
her  knitted  reefer. 

"No,"  she  said  frankly.  "She— she  didn't  tell 
me  to  come,  Miss  Pace.  I  just  ran  after  Annie 
Laurie  as  hard  as  I  could." 

"And  very  sweet  it  was  of  you,  my  dear.  It 
shows  you  have  a  generous  heart,  and  that  you 
couldn't  imagine  Mrs.  Carson  or  her  daughter 
would  feel  any  differently  from  you.  But  you 
can  see  for  yourself  that  I  must  wait  till  I  hear 
from  them." 

"We  have  heard  from  them,"  cried  Annie 
Laurie  eagerly  from  the  hall.  "Carin  tele- 
phoned, Aunt  Zillah;  but  Aunt  Adnah  wouldn't 
let  her  talk." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  came  the  voice 
of  Aunt  Adnah. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Annie  Laurie,  please,"  cried 
Azalea,  running  toward  the  hall  door. 

Annie  Laurie  made  a  motion  as  if  for  flight, 
then  brought  herself  up  sharply,  and  faced  Aza- 
lea. Miss  Zillah  had  arisen  and  stood  smiling 
and  trembling  a  trifle,  too,  like  a  rose  bush  softly 
shaken  by  the  wind.  Her  lips  moved  slightly, 
and  Annie  Laurie,  flashing  a  glance  at  her  as 


56    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

she  came  into  the  room,  understood  that  Aunt 
Zillah  was  putting  up  one  of  her  gentle  supplica- 
tions for  peace. 

"Oh,  Annie  Laurie,"  Azalea  burst  forth,  "I've 
come  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  You  really, 
really  must.  I  had  no  idea  how  you  were  feel- 
ing. I'm  terribly  unhappy  about  it.  Don't  you 
think  you  can  forgive  me?" 

"What  is  there  for  me  to  forgive?"  asked  An- 
nie Laurie.  "You  didn't  want  me — you  and 
Carin — and  you  showed  it.  That's  all  there  is 
to  it.    I  shan't  bother  you  any  more." 

"Well,  I  want  you  now,"  declared  Azalea. 
"You  can  see  yourself  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  Carin  and  me  to  be  happy  with  you  leaving 
that  way,  all  hurt  and  angry.  I  don't  blame  you 
a  bit,  really.  Except,  of  course,  I  think  you  shut 
up  like  a  clam  when  you  saw  that  we  didn't  like 
a  third  person  in  the  classes.  It  wasn't  that  we 
objected  to  you  in  particular.  We  were  selfish, 
that's  all,  and  fond  of  our  own  good  times;  but 
it  won't  be  like  that  again,  honestly  it  won't. 
Your  aunt  says  I  mustn't  speak  for  Carin  and 
Mrs.  Carson,  and  I  see  that  I  mustn't,  but  I  know 
so  well  that  I  am  saying  just  what  they  would 
want  me  to  say,  that  I  can't  keep  still."     She 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  57 

turned  toward  Miss  Zillah,  and  caught  the  worn 
hand  of  the  woman  in  hers.  "Truly,"  she  said, 
"they'd  be  saying  just  what  I  am,  if  they  were 
here." 

"That  boy  again  I"  exploded  Miss  Adnah  from 
the  hall.  "He's  looking  in  the  hall  window 
again." 

"It's  only  poor  Hi,"  explained  Azalea.  "You 
see,  he's  always  afraid  something  is  going  to 
happen  to  me." 

"Well,  if  I  had  my  way,  it  would,"  snapped 
Miss  Adnah. 

"Oh,  sister,  sister,"  murmured  Miss  Zillah. 

And  just  then  the  eyes  of  Azalea  and  Annie 
Laurie  met.  There  was  a  flash  between  them 
and  then  something  exploded — exploded  in  help- 
less laughter.  Miss  Zillah,  unable  to  believe  her 
senses,  called  faintly,  "Adnah!  Adnah!"  And 
Adnah,  on  the  point  of  making  another  sortie 
into  the  yard  for  the  prying  Hi,  answered  her 
appeal,  and  came  to  the  parlor.  There  she  saw 
the  two  girls  in  convulsions  of  laughter,  and  Zil- 
lah stiff  and  incredulous  on  the  piano  stool.  Miss 
Adnah  surveyed  the  scene  for  a  moment  in 
wrath. 


58    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

*'Come,  Zillah,"  she  commanded,  and  dragged 
her  sister  from  the  room. 

The  girls  heard  the  kitchen  door  slam  behind 
the  two,  and  rocked  again  with  painful  mirth. 

*'Oh,  oh,"  half-sobbed  Annie  Laurie  at  length, 
"how  ridiculous  we've  been!" 

''Dreadful,"  agreed  Azalea.  "I'm  just  as 
ashamed  of  myself  as  I  can  be.  Can't  I  go  and 
apologize  to  your  aunts?" 

"Not  on  any  account,"  said  Annie  Laurie 
firmly.  "They'll  never  understand.  Never! 
You  couldn't  expect  them  to." 

"Will  you  come  back  with  me,  Annie  Laurie? 
We're  bound  to  like  each  other  now  after  we've 
laughed  together  like  that." 

Annie  Laurie  gave  a  final  gurgle, 

"I  know,"  she  said.    "Let's  go  out  and  tell  Hi." 

"No,  just  let's  walk  out  together,  arm  in  arm. 
That  will  make  it  all  right.  Let's  never,  never 
tell  anyone  what  happened." 

"Very  well,  then.  And  you  think  I  ought  to 
go  back?" 

"I  know  it.  You  must  go  on  Carin's  account 
and  on  mine — just  prove  we're  not  so  horrid  as 
you  thought  us." 

The  telephone  rang  again.    They  could  hear 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  59 

Miss  Zillah  begging  to  be  allowed  to  answer  it 
and  Miss  Adnah  refusing.  So  Annie  Laurie 
took  down  the  receiver. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Carson,"  Azalea  heard  her  say. 
"Yes,  it's  Annie  Laurie.  Yes,  Azalea  is  here. 
Forgive  Carin?  Yes,  Mrs.  Carson.  I  reckon 
it  was  my  fault,  too.  Oh,  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  yout- 
fault,  whosever  it  was,  ma'am.  We've  been  bad, 
that's  all.  Everybody  is  bad  sometimes,  I  sup- 
pose. I  never  was  so  horrid  before,  though,  hon- 
estly. You  say  Carin  never  was,  either.  Well, 
I'm  coming  back  now.  Azalea  and  I  were  just 
starting.  What  is  it?  Oh,  yes,  we'll  not  talk  of 
it.    Very  well,  Mrs.  Carson.    Good-bye." 

She  turned  to  Azalea. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "if  we  go  right  along  we'll 
be  able  to  finish  our  South  Sea  Island  study 
hour." 

She  put  her  head  in  the  kitchen  door. 

"Good-bye,  aunts,"  she  said.  "Try  to  forget 
about  it  all.    I'm  going  back." 

"Annie  Laurie,"  came  the  austere  voice  of  her 
Aunt  Adnah,  "how  can  you?" 

Annie  Laurie  ran  in  and  threw  her  arms 
around  her  aunt's  neck. 


6o    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Because  I  have  to,  auntie,"  she  said,  "to  be 
happy  and — " 

"And  good,"  broke  in  Aunt  Zillah.  She  fol- 
lowed them  out  into  the  hall.  Her  pale  face 
was  shining,  and  her  short  curls  bobbed  about 
on  her  trembling  head.  She  knew  that  her  prayer 
for  peace  had  been  answered.  It  did  not  matter 
to  her  that  it  had  come  in  gusts  of  laughter.  Miss 
Zillah  was  not  one  to  quarrel  with  ways  and 
means. 

As  for  the  girls,  they  set  out  on  the  road  with 
vigor.  The  air  was  full  of  life,  the  mountains 
were  brown  beneath  their  purple  bloom,  and  the 
roadway  was  beginning  to  fill  with  folk  driving 
in  to  market.  Azalea  and  Annie  Laurie  knew 
almost  every  one — knew  Mr.  Disbrow,  the  un- 
dertaker, driving  his  black  horses — which  now 
were  hitched  to  a  somewhat  rickety  buggy — they 
knew  "Haystack"  Thompson,  who  was  eating  up 
the  road  with  his  great  strides,  his  fiddle  under 
his  arm;  they  knew  Elder  Mills,  twisted  and 
tormented  with  rheumatism,  who  was  about  to 
"accept  a  call"  in  Florida,  thus  leaving  vacant 
the  pulpit  of  the  Methodist  church;  they  were 
well  acquainted  with  the  grocer,  and  the  miller, 
and  the  postmaster,  and  the  sheriff.    From  each 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  6i 

they  received  a  salutation,  and  from  most  of  them 
an  inquiry  as  to  why  they  were  not  in  school. 
Annie  Laurie,  used  to  the  "yea  and  nay"  of  the 
Pace  household,  wondered  what  they  ought  to 
answer,  and  she  was  astonished  that  Azalea  had 
no  difficulty  at  all  in  finding  a  fit  reply. 

"Oh,  we've  been  to  school  this  morning,"  she 
said  smilingly.  "And  we've  learned  a  hard  les- 
son, too.    Now  we're  on  our  way  back  again." 

But  they  had  got  no  more  than  half  the  way 
to  The  Shoals  when  the  familiar  surrey  of  the 
Carsons  appeared,  with  Mrs.  Carson  sitting 
in  it. 

"Goodness,"  cried  Annie  Laurie,  "she's  com- 
ing for  me!  What  trouble  I  have  put  every- 
body to." 

But  Mrs.  Carson  didn't  seem  to  think  that  any- 
body was  making  her  trouble.  She  wore  that 
pleasant,  dreamy  smile  of  hers — her  "moon- 
light" smile,  as  Carin  called  it,  and  her  voice  was 
as  even  and  low  as  ever  as  she  bade  Benjamin 
turn  the  horses,  and  invited  the  girls  to  get  in 
beside  her. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  to  meet  you,"  she  said 
blandly,  and  quite  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
They  rode  along  together  in  silence  for  a  while, 


62     ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

almost  wondering  if  anything  unpleasant  really 
had  occurred,  Mrs.  Carson  seemed  so  uncon- 
scious of  it.  But  when  they  got  out  of  the  car- 
riage at  the  house  door  she  said: 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  talked  everything  out. 
You'll  find  it  much  better  always,  I  believe — to 
talk  things  out.  By  the  way,  Carin  is  up  in  her 
studio.  Lessons  are  to  be  up  there  this  morning, 
for  a  change.  Azalea,  will  you  kindly  show  An- 
nie Laurie  the  way?  Your  luncheon  will  be 
served  there  too.  We  thought  we'd  celebrate  the 
formation  of  the  Triple  Alliance. 

"What,  ma'am?"  said  Azalea. 

"The  Three  Girls'  Alliance,"  smiled  Mrs. 
Carson.  "Drive  back  to  town,  please  Ben.  I 
must  do  my  marketing." 

As  she  rode  off,  Annie  Laurie  looked  at  Aza- 
lea in  a  puzzled  way. 

"How  quiet  she  is,"  she  said.  "I  can't  make 
her  out.  Nothing  seems  to  matter  to  her,  yet 
she's  always  doing  good.  I  never  heard  of  any- 
one who  did  so  much  good.  Can  you  under- 
stand her?" 

Azalea  shook  her  head. 

"No — and  yet  a  great  sorrow,  such  as  hers — 
it  makes  you  still,  I  reckon.    My  mother —  I  call 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  63 

Mrs.  McBirney  my  mother,  you  know — is  still. 
Yet  she  has  lost  only  one  child,  and  little  Molly 
died  right  in  her  arms.  But  Mrs.  Carson  lost 
her  three  sons  in  a  theatre  fire  in  Chicago,  and 
it  did  something  to  her,  I  suppose.  The  heart 
went  out  of  her,  though  not  the  goodness." 

"Oh,  dear  no,"  agreed  Annie  Laurie,  "not  the 
goodness." 

They  left  their  outer  wraps  in  the  vacant 
schoolroom,  and  then  made  their  way  up  the 
wide  mahogany  stairs,  with  the  gleaming  white 
banisters  and  mahogany  rail.  Curious  old  prints 
lined  the  side  of  the  wall,  and  Annie  Laurie 
wanted  to  pause  and  look  at  them,  but  Azalea 
urged  her  on. 

"If  you  stopped  to  look  at  every  interesting 
thing  in  this  house,"  she  said,  "you'd  never  get 
anywhere." 

They  went  on  past  the  floor  where  the  bed- 
rooms were,  and  then  up  a  narrower  flight  of 
stairs  to  the  third  story. 

"Half  of  this  story  is  Carin's,"  explained  Aza- 
lea.    "The  servants  sleep  in  the  other  half." 

A  tall,  curious  door,  much  paneled,  with  a 
shining  brass  knob,  stood  before  them.    There 


64    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

was  also  a  knocker  of  brass,  shaped  like  a  lyre. 
Azalea  rapped  with  it. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  voice  of  Carin,  and  Aza- 
lea threw  wide  the  door  and  motioned  Annie 
Laurie  to  enter. 

What  she  saw  then  she  was  never  to  forget. 
It  was  as  bright  to  her,  as  different  from  any- 
thing she  ever  had  seen,  as  the  green  Azores  are 
to  one  who  has  ridden  long  upon  the  gray  At- 
lantic. The  room  was  paneled  high  in  white, 
and  above  it,  decorations  of  tropical  flowers  and 
parokeets  made  the  wall  gay.  Muslin  curtains 
hung  at  the  dormer  windows,  beneath  draperies 
of  delicate  green.  Near  the  north  window  was 
Carin's  easel,  with  the  unfinished  portrait  of 
Azalea  upon  it.  Chairs  of  green  wicker  stood 
about;  a  huge  divan  was  piled  with  dainty  pil- 
lows; in  the  white  wooden  fireplace,  with  its 
tiles  of  parrots,  palms  and  pagodas,  a  bright  fire 
burned.  Japanese  rugs  of  gray  and  white  lay 
on  the  floor,  and  in  jars  of  pale  green,  or  gray, 
were  beautiful  blossoming  plants. 

But  exquisite  as  the  room  was,  and  deeply  as 
it  satisfied  Annie  Laurie's  beauty-starved  heart, 
it  was  as  nothing  to  the  girl  who  was  the  center 
of  it.     In  her  crimson  school  frock,  soft  and 


\  v 


L      4^ 


:^^ 


Carin  stood  awaiting  them,  her  hands  outstretched. 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  65 

graceful,  her  golden  hair  shining  on  her  shapely 
head,  her  eyes  full  of  tears  of  repentance,  Carin 
stood  awaiting  them,  her  hands  outstretched.  It 
all  seemed  so  different  from  what  Annie  Laurie 
knew  of  her,  that  at  first  she  hesitated  to  go  for- 
ward, but  Carin  came  on,  still  with  that  look  of 
solicitude  in  her  face. 

*'Oh,  Annie  Laurie,"  she  said,  "I  see  every- 
thing now.  I  see  how  I  acted  and  how  I  made 
you  feel.  You'll  have  to  forgive  me.  I  never 
was  like  that  before.  It  was  as  if  imps  got  in- 
side me,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  I  seemed  to 
want  to  hang  on  to  them.  I  knew  I  was  wicked, 
but  I  liked  to  be  that  way.  I  just  wouldn't  give 
up,  though  I  was  unhappy  all  the  time.  I  told 
mother  all  about  it,  and  she  said  that  was  the  way 
it  was  when  you  got  perverse.  You  liked  it. 
Perversity  seemed  sweeter  than  anything.  She 
said  it  was  like  being  a  drunkard.  You  enjoyed 
the  thing  that  ruined  you.  I  can  see  just  what 
she  meant.  I'll  tell  you  now,  Annie  Laurie,  that 
after  the  first  day  or  two  I  found  myself  liking 
you,  and  I  hated  to  admit  it.  I  tried  not  to  as 
hard  as  I  could.  I  didn't  like  mamma's  putting 
a  girl  in  with  us  without  talking  it  over,  do  you 
see?    But  I  do  like  you — I  had  to.    The  whole 


66    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

trouble  was  that  I  couldn't  bear  to  give  up.  But 
you've  made  me,  and  now  I'm  well  again.  For 
it's  just  like  a  spell  of  sickness,  having  a  horrid, 
wicked  idea  like  mine  and  holding  on  to  it.  Do 
you  understand?" 

Annie  Laurie's  face  had  flushed  softly;  her 
eyes  were  misty,  her  handsome,  large  mouth 
slightly  tremulous.  She  withdrew  her  hands 
from  Carin's,  and  put  her  arms  close  about  her. 

"When  I  say  I  forgive,"  she  said,  "I  do." 

"And  do  you  say  it?" 

Annie  Laurie  laughed  deep  in  her  throat — and 
again  her  voice  reminded  one  of  an  oriole's. 

"I  do  say  it,"  she  said.  "Your  mother  called 
it  the  Triple  Alliance — the  Three  Girls'  Alli- 
ance." 

"We  must  swear  fealty!"  cried  Azalea.  She 
ran  to  the  table  and  brought  back  Howard  Pyle's 
"Robin  Hood,"  in  which  the  story  of  the  forester 
and  his  faithful  crew  is  told  in  equally  beautiful 
words  and  pictures. 

"Swear!"  she  commanded.  Carin,  laughing 
somewhat  uncertainly,  dropped  her  slender 
white  hand  on  it.  Annie  Laurie  laid  her  firm 
brown  one  over  it;  Azalea  placed  on  top  her 


TRIAL  WITHOUT  JURY  67 

sensitive,  odd  hand,  which  always  quivered  when 
she  cared  about  anything. 

"We  swear,"  they  said  in  chorus. 

The  door  opened  and  Miss  Parkhurst  entered, 
her  arms  full  of  books. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  RAINY  NIGHT 

After  thatj  the  short  days  of  winter  passed  as 
happily  for  the  three  girls  as  days  can  be  ex- 
pected to  pass  in  a  world  which  some  discour- 
aged person  called  "a  vale  of  tears."  Alert  as 
their  minds  were,  each  was  decidedly  different 
from  the  other,  and  they  had  the  effect  of  spur- 
ring each  other  on.  Carin  was,  of  course,  really 
more  interested  in  her  drawing  and  painting  than 
in  anything  else,  although  she  was  a  good  stu- 
dent, too.  Annie  Laurie  simply  devoured  books, 
and  her  happiest  diversion  was  music.  A  good 
teacher  came  weekly  from  Rutherford,  a  town 
near  by,  to  give  her  instruction.  But  Azalea  took 
neither  drawing  nor  singing  lessons.  She  had 
much  housework  to  do  before  and  after  school, 
and  her  long  ride  down  the  mountain  each  morn- 
ing and  back  again  at  night,  with  the  fatigue  it 
entailed,  had  to  be  taken  into  account.  Then 
she  helped  with  the  sewing  and  with  the  weav- 
ing, and  so  had  neither  time  nor  strength    for 

68 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  69 

anything  else.  Once  Mrs.  Carson  said  to  her 
husband: 

"Perhaps  we  were  wrong  not  to  insist  on  hav- 
ing Azalea  live  with  us.  It  is  true  that  few  chil- 
dren have  so  much  love  and  care  given  them  as 
she  has  there  with  the  dear  McBirneys.  But  she 
has  to  share  their  poverty  too,  and  their  hard 
work.  Do  you  think  she  will  be  worn  out, 
Charles?  Children  seem  so  precious  to  me.  I 
can't  bear  to  see  their  strength  wasted." 

"My  dear,  she  is  being  made  into  a  very  capa- 
ble girl,"  Mr.  Carson  answered  reassuringly. 
"She  is  having  the  sort  of  training  our  pioneer 
ancestors  had,  and  they  grew  stronger  for  their 
tasks  and  hardships.  You  and  I  are  not  going  to 
live  forever,  you  know,  and  our  Carin  will  never 
want  to  take  up  the  work  we're  doing  here  among 
the  mountain  people.  She'll  be  ofi  to  Paris  or 
Rome,  I  suppose,  picture  seeing  and  making. 
But  here's  Azalea,  in  the  most  practical  arts  and 
crafts  school  possible.  She  sees  the  mountain 
handicrafts  made  every  day  right  before  her  eyes, 
and  when  she's  grown  she'll  be  able  to  teach 
others.  She'll  come  in  here  and  take  ud  the 
work  where  we  leave  off." 

"Charles  Carson,"  cried  his  wife  indignantly. 


70    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

shocked  for  once  out  of  her  sweet  placidity, 
"what  do  you  mean  by  speaking  of  us  as  if  we 
were  old?    Why,  we're  hardly  middle-aged." 

"Aren't  we?"  said  Mr.  Carson  rather  wearily, 
yet  smiling  too.  "I  didn't  know,  Lucy.  Some- 
times it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  lived  a  long 
time." 

His  wife  was  silent.  She  knew  what  he  meant. 
Who  could  know  better?  The  day  of  blight»that 
took  from  them  their  three  fine  sons  had  left 
them  disinclined  to  go  on  playing  the  game  of 
life.  They  had  tried  many  things,  and  at  length 
had  come  into  this  quiet  valley,  where  there  was 
so  much  uncomplaining  poverty,  where  the  peo- 
ple had  latent  talents  that  only  needed  encour- 
agement to  make  them  bread-winning  forces, 
and  they  had  endeavored  to  make  themselves 
necessary 

They  had  bought  the  beautiful  old  home  that 
long  years  before  had  belonged  to  Azalea's 
grandfather,  Colonel  Atherton,  and  they  had 
showered  their  favors  right  and  left  and  tried  to 
make  their  influence  felt  in  all  parts  of  the 
county.  Their  love  of  doing  something,  of  build- 
ing up,  was  as  a  fresh  wind  blowing  in  a  sultry 
plain.    For  a  lassitude  had  hung  over  the  beauti- 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  71 

ful  valley  of  Lee — a  lassitude  born  of  long  years 
of  loneliness,  lack  of  opportunity  and  monotony. 
Too  little  had  happened;  there  had  been  too  few 
ways  of  earning  money;  too  few  strangers  had 
come  that  way.  One  day  was  so  like  another  that 
a  spell  lay  upon  the  people,  and  they  moved  as  in 
a  long  dream.  But  it  was  different  now.  There 
was  some  use  in  making  the  strong,  hand-woven 
cloth,  the  durable,  quaint  chairs  and  the  curious 
baskets,  for  Mr.  Carson  saw  that  they  were 
profitably  marketed. 

Mr.  Carson  had  induced  the  mother  of  Hi 
Kitchell,  a  little  worn  woman  with  three  chil- 
dren to  support,  to  come  down  from  the  moun- 
tains and  oversee  his  industries  for  him.  He  had 
given  her  a  little  home  on  the  level  spot  known 
as  the  Field  of  Arrows,  an  ancient  Indian  camp- 
ing ground,  and  here  the  young  women  came  to 
learn  the  weaving  of  baskets  and  of  cloth.  The 
front  room  was  the  shop,  where  the  people  came 
to  buy  these  interesting  wares. 

Here,  too,  the  three  girls  came  sometimes  after 
school  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  homemade  cake 
— for  Mrs.  Kitchell  served  these  comforts  to  all 
who  wished  them — and  sitting  around  her  fire, 
they  listened  to  her  stories  and  told  tales  of  their 


72    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

own  adventures.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a 
dozen  or  more  in  the  tea  room,  whiling  away 
the  tedium  of  a  winter  afternoon.  Hi  and  the 
other  children  helped  with  the  servingj  and  now 
and  then  "for  the  fun  of  it"  Jim  McBirney  or 
Sam  Disbrow  took  a  hand.  There  always  was 
plenty  to  do  at  the  Mountain  Industries,  it 
seemed,  however  slack  work  might  be  elsewhere. 

One  day  of  cold  rain,  Azalea  and  Annie 
Laurie  had  stopped  in  at  Mrs.  Kitchell's  for  a 
cup  of  tea  before  they  made  their  way  to  their 
distant  homes.  There  was  no  one  there  that  after- 
noon, save  the  sharp-eyed,  busy  Mrs.  Kitchell, 
and  she,  having  served  them,  went  back  to  the 
loom-room  and  left  them  to  themselves.  The 
girls  were  excellent  friends  now.  They  trusted 
and  admired  each  other — counted  on  each  other, 
as  true  friends  should. 

"Azalea,"  said  Annie  Laurie,  "I  never  under- 
stood rightly  about  your  'cousin  Barbara.'  I've 
heard  you  speak  of  her,  but  I'm  not  quite  clear 
as  to  who  she  is." 

Azalea  laughed  lightly. 

*'She  isn't  really  my  cousin  at  all,"  she  said. 
"I  have  no  kin,  Annie  Laurie.  But  I  have  told 
you,  have  I  not,  how  my  poor  mamma  and  I 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  73 

were  traveling  with  a  dreadful  show  when  she 
died;  and  how  we  had  got  as  far  as  the  McBir- 
ney's  cottage,  and  Ma  McBirney — as  Jim  calls 
her — had  my  dear  mamma  buried  right  there 
near  the  house,  where  her  own  little  Molly's 
grave  is?  Then  she  asked  the  show  people  to 
let  her  take  me,  and  they  wouldn't.  And  so  the 
dear,  brave  thing  took  me  anyway,  and  ran  away 
up  into  the  mountains  with  me  and  hid  with  me 
in  a  cave.  And  Pa  McBirney  and  some  of  his 
friends  stayed  down  at  the  house,  with  shotguns, 
and  scared  the  show  folk  away.  Well,  Sisson,  Hi 
Kitchen's  uncle,  who  was  at  the  head  of  the  show, 
was  terribly  angry,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  he 
would  have  me  back  again.  So  one  time,  when 
we  all  went  ofif  to  a  'Singing,'  he  managed  to  get 
me,  and  to  carry  me  away,  and  for  weeks  I  was 
taken  f  romx  one  place  to  another  in  the  mountains, 
away  off  the  beaten  tracks,  always  hiding.  Oh, 
it  was  such  a  time,  Annie!" 

"I  know,"  said  the  other  sympathetically.  *'0f 
course  I  heard  about  that.  We  were  all  so  ex- 
cited, wondering  if  you'd  be  found,  and  I  just 
cried  when  I  heard  that  you  were,  and  that 
good  old  Haystack  Thompson  was  bringing  you 
home.    I  didn't  know  you — and  I  couldn't  even 


74    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

remember  having  seen  you — but  I  felt  interested 
in  you  from  that  moment." 

"Well,  perhaps  you  heard  that  I  managed  to 
run  away  from  the  people  who  were  hiding  me, 
and  I  went  down  the  mountain  in  the  night,  and 
came  to  the  little  town  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  crept 
into  a  house  there,  and  into  a  sleeping-porch 
with  a  bed  in  it.  Oh,  I  was  so  tired — so  tired  it 
was  almost  like  dying.  I  don't  really  remember 
getting  in  that  bed;  but  I  was  found  there  in 
the  morning  by  Mr.  Summers,  who  is  a  Metho- 
dist minister,  you  know.  His  wife  is  Barbara 
Summers.  And  they  have  the  dearest  baby  you 
ever  saw  or  heard  of — Jonathan  Summers,  he  is, 
bless  him.  Well,  Mrs.  Summers  is  just  a  little 
dear  thing  with  brown  eyes — she's  no  bigger 
than  I  am.  And  from  the  minute  we  saw  each 
other,  we  loved  each  other  and  felt  at  home.  So 
we  decided  that  we'd  be  kin.  I  write  to  her  one 
week,  and  she  writes  to  me  the  next.  She  sends 
me  pictures  of  Jonathan  that  she  takes  with  her 
little  camera,  and  I  send  her  presents  when  I 
can — little  woven  table-covers  or  baskets.  You've 
no  idea  how  sweet  she  is,  Annie  Laurie." 

"You  seem  to  make  friends  whenever  you 
please,  Azalea.    It's  so  easy  for  you!    The  Paces 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  75 

aren't  like  that.  It's  hard  for  them  to  let  them- 
selves go  and  say  the  thing  that  comes  into  their 
minds.  We're  stiff,  someway.  But  when  we 
do  make  friends,  we  keep  them." 

"Be  sure  to  keep  mc,  Annie  Laurie.  I 
nearly  lost  you  through  my  own  carelessness,  and 
I  mean  to  hang  on  to  you  now.  Well,  come,  let's 
start  for  home." 

But  as  it  turned  out,  it  was  raining  most  dis- 
mally. A  dark  cloud  had  tumbled  off  the  moun- 
tain and  settled  down  over  the  valley,  and  though 
it  was  not  late,  it  seemed  almost  like  night. 

"Goodness  me,"  said  Annie  Laurie,  "I  don't 
like  to  think  of  you  riding  away  up  on  the  moun- 
tain a  night  like  this.    Why,  you'd  be  drenched." 

"I  ought  to  have  accepted  Carin's  invitation 
and  stayed  all  night  with  her,"  said  Azalea. 
"Mother  doesn't  expect  me  on  bad  nights.  She's 
not  to  worry  about  me  if  I  don't  come  when  it 
rains  or  snows." 

"Oh,  stay  with  me,  Azalea  I  It's  just  the 
chance  I've  been  wanting.  You've  never  been 
in  my  home  except  on  that  funny  day  when  we 
all  had  conniption  fits — especially  Aunt  Adnah. 
But,  honestly,  Aunt  Adnah  is  a  brick  if  you 
know  her." 


76    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Azalea  giggled.  "Yes,  she  did  seem  to  have 
some  of  the  properties  of  a  brick — hardness,  for 
example.    She  hit  me  between  the  eyes." 

"Well,  she'll  make  it  up  to  you  now,  if  you'll 
give  her  a  chance.  Of  course  she  wouldn't  say 
that  she  wants  to  make  up,  but  she  does." 

"I'd  just  love  to  stay  all  night  with  you,"  Aza- 
lea said.  "I'll  take  the  pony  back  to  the  Car- 
sons'  stable,  and  then  we'll  walk  over  to  your 
house." 

"Very  well.  I'll  go  with  you  to  the  stable." 
They  put  the  pony  in  the  stall,  and  then, 
wrapped  in  their  raincoats,  tramped  along  over 
the  red  pine  needles  to  Annie  Laurie's  home. 

"Don't  feel  at  all  backward,  will  you.  Aza- 
lea?" the  other  girl  said  as  they  stood  on  the 
doorstep.  "You  just  have  a  little  pluck  and 
everything  will  come  out  all  right." 

Azalea  laughed. 

"You  don't  half  understand  me  yet,  Annie 
Laurie,"  she  said.  "You're  so  much  more  seri- 
ous than  I  am.  I  can't  help  enjoying  things  even 
when  they  are  serious.  I  know  I  oughtn't  to 
feel  that  way,  but  I  think  it  will  be  awfully 
funny  to  see  your  Aunt  Adnah's  face  when  she 
finds  I've  had  the  impudence  to  come  again." 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  ^^ 

Annie  Laurie  frowned  a  trifle.  She  was  not 
quite  sure  she  liked  to  have  her  aunt  regarded 
as  amusing.  However,  they  went  in  together. 
The  door  of  the  grim  little  parlor  was  closed, 
but  the  living-room  door  stood  open  and  Annie 
Laurie  led  the  way  in.  There  was  an 
ugly  brussels  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  a  center 
table  covered  with  a  chenille  cloth;  on  it 
was  the  reading  lamp,  and  ranged  about  it 
were  comfortable  chairs.  A  black  marble  clock 
ticked  noisily  on  the  mantel  shelf,  and  a  low  fire 
smouldered  among  the  ashes.  The  scrim  cur- 
tains had  many  colored  figures  in  them,  and 
helped  to  keep  out  the  light  of  the  declining 
day.  Azalea  could  not  help  contrasting  it  with 
the  exquisite  rooms  at  The  Shoals,  and  with  the 
quaint,  charming  rooms  in  the  McBirney  cabin. 
She  could  understand  some  of  the  bitter  things 
that  Annie  Laurie  had  said  to  her — could  see 
that,  somehow,  life  had  been  commonplace  for 
this  girl  from  the  first,  and  that,  though  she  did 
not  altogether  realize  it,  it  was  this  common- 
placeness  which  made  her  dissatisfied. 

"Wherever  can  the  aunts  be?"  said  Annie 
Laurie.  "The  fire  is  out  in  the  kitchen,  and 
there  are  no  signs  of  supper.     LTsually  at  this 


78    ANJNflE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

hour,  things  are  humming  like  a  bee  hive.  Take 
off  your  things,  Azalea.  I'll  hang  them  up 
where  they'll  dry.  You  sit  right  down  before 
the  fire,  and  I'll  bring  in  some  wood." 

**But  let  me  help,  Annie  Laurie." 

*'No,  no.  You're  company.  I  don't  often 
have  company."  She  went  away  with  Azalea's 
things  and  then  came  back  and  stood  looking  at 
her  guest  with  her  glowing  eyes.  "Azalea,"  she 
said  intensely,  *'I  never  have  company  1" 

'Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  why  not.  I'm  not  supposed  to 
want  it.  I'm  to  study  and  work,  and  mend  and 
practice  my  music,  and  be  doing  something  from 
early  till  late.  It  isn't  that  they're  not  kind  to 
me — my  aunts  and  my  father — but  they're  so 
dreadfully  serious  and  conscientious." 

"It  does  throw  a  damper  over  everything,  be- 
ing conscientious  like  that,"  mused  Azalea. 

Annie  Laurie  looked  startled  to  hear  her  own 
secret  idea  put  in  words. 

"For  goodness  sake,"  she  cried,  "don't  let  the 
aunts  hear  you  say  that!" 

Azalea  laughed  teasingly. 

"I'd  really  like  to  try  that  on  Aunt  Adnah," 
she  said. 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  79 

Annie  Laurie  was  getting  used  to  her  friend, 
and  she  made  no  reply.  She  ran  upstairs  for  a 
moment,  and  came  down  clothed  in  a  warm 
brown  wrapper,  and  carrying  another  one  of 
equally  uninviting  color  on  her  arm. 

"Slip  into  this,  Azalea,"  she  commanded,  "and 
let  me  hang  your  dress  out  in  the  hall  near  the 
heater.  There  now,  lie  down  on  the  sofa — so. 
I'll  lie  down  too  with  my  head  the  other  way, 
and  we'll  wrap  ourselves  in  my  grandfather's 
old  army  blankets.  I'm  dead  tired,  aren't  you? 
I  don't  see  where  the  aunts  are." 

She  yawned  wearily,  and  Azalea  caught  the 
contagion  and  stretched  her  pretty  mouth  in 
imitation. 

"Oh,  it's  cosy,  isn't  it?"  Azalea  murmured. 
Neither  spoke  again.  Their  eyes  w^ere  fixed  on 
the  smouldering  coals,  which  seemed  to  hypno- 
tize them,  and  presently  they  both  slept. 

Just  how  long  they  lay  there,  comfortably  rest- 
ing. Azalea  could  not  tell,  but  when  she  opened 
her  eyes  the  twilight  had  deepened.  Annie 
Laurie  was  still  deep  in  sleep.  The  fire  had 
quickened,  and  by  its  glow  Azalea  could  see 
that  some  one  had  entered  the  room.  For  a 
moment  she  was  startled,  but  then  she  saw  that 


8o    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

it  was  Annie  Laurie  s  father,  Simeon  Pace;  so 
she  lay  still,  not  liking  to  speak,  since  she  was 
not  sure  he  would  know  her.  He  did  not  see 
the  two  girls  on  the  sofa,  and  it  was  quite  evi- 
dent that  he  thought  himself  alone.  Azalea 
watched  him  sleepily,  and  saw  him  take  off  his 
coat  and  throw  it  on  the  chair.  Then  he  began 
twisting  his  arm  in  a  most  inhuman  manner,  and 
Azalea's  blood  was  frozen  as  she  saw  him  loosen 
it  at  the  elbow  and  lay  it  beside  the  coat,  until 
she  chanced  to  remember  about  its  being  mere- 
ly a  tin  substitute  for  an  arm.  His  next  act  was 
to  take  a  long  pocketbook  or  wallet  from  the 
mantel,  draw  something  from  it,  stuff  it  into  his 
hollow  arm  and  deftly  strap  the  arm  into  place 
again. 

"How  funny,"  thought  Azalea.  "How  Jim 
will  laugh  when  I  tell  him  about  it!" 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  been  un- 
intentionally spying,  and  that  it  would  not  be  at 
all  fair  to  tell  what  she  had  seen.  She  knew  Ma 
McBirney  would  not  like  her  to  mention  any- 
thing she  had  seen  under  such  circumstances. 
So  she  lay  as  still  as  a  lizard,  hardly  breathing, 
and  finally  Mr.  Pace  left  the  room.  A  moment 
later  she  heard  the  two  aunts  bustling  about  in 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  8i 

the  kitchen.  There  was  a  poking  at  the  stove, 
a  lighting  of  lamps,  a  rattling  of  dishes,  and 
it  was  evident  that  the  household  was  being  set 
in  motion  again. 

"Where  are  you,  Annie  Laurie,  child?"  called 
the  voice  of  Miss  Zillah.  "We've  been  out  to 
the  sewing  circle,  and  it  was  so  late  before  the  re- 
freshments were  served  that  we  couldn't  hold 
our  business  meeting  till  after  five.  Then  on  the 
way  home  we  heard  Mrs.  Disbrow  was  worse 
and  Hannah  laid  up  with  a  cold  and  we  dropped 
in  to  see  them,  though  I  must  say  they're  a  shift- 
less lot.  We  thought  you  and  your  father 
wouldn't  mind  if  supper  was  a  little  late.  What 
you  lying  there  for,  child?  And  mercy  me, 
how  big  you  look!  Why,  no  wonder,  there's 
two  of  you.  It's  you.  Azalea?  How  do  you 
do?" 

"I'm  very  well,  ma'am,"  said  Azalea  rather 
shyly.  "I  hope  you  didn't  mind  my  coming.  It 
was  so  rainy  and  horrid,  Annie  Laurie  asked 
me  to  spend  the  night." 

"Why,  you're  as  welcome  as  sunrise,  of  course. 
Sister  Adnah,  here  is  Azalea  McBirney.  She's 
come  to  spend  the  night  with  us." 

Azalea  wondered  what  was  going  to  happen 


82    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

then.  Miss  Adnah  had  been  quite  vicious  on 
the  occasion  of  her  former  visit;  but  the  mis- 
chievous spirit  in  the  girl  made  her  rather  enjoy 
the  uncertainty.  Miss  Adnah,  she  decided, 
could  do  no  more  than  eat  her  up.  But  Miss 
Adnah  was  over  her  bad  temper.  She  came  in 
holding  out  her  hand  gravely. 

"It  was  a  wise  thing  for  you  to  stay  in  the  val- 
ley to-night,"  she  said  primly.  "I'm  sure  Mrs. 
McBirney  wouldn't  want  you  to  climb  the 
mountain  in  such  a  drizzle." 

She  avoided  committing  herself  to  a  mere 
piece  of  flattery.  She  didn't  say  she  was  glad 
Azalea  was  there,  but  for  some  reason,  the  girl 
did  not  feel  chilled.  She  knew  Annie  Laurie 
wanted  her,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  as  the 
daughter  of  the  house,  Annie  Laurie  ought  to 
enjoy  some  privileges.  However,  a  few  minutes 
later,  when  she  was  in  Annie  Laurie's  sober,  tidy 
room,  putting  on  her  dress  and  freshening  her 
hair,  she  overheard  Miss  Zillah  saying  softly 
to  Annie  Laurie  in  the  next  room: 

"Sister  Adnah  thinks  you  should  not  invite 
anyone  to  the  house  without  first  asking  permis- 
sion, my  dear.    As  for  myself,  I'm  glad  to  see 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  83 

you  have  friends  and  feel  free  to  ask.  them,  but 
it  would  be  well  to  make  certain  preparations." 

"Not  at  all,  Aunt  Zillah,"  answered  Annie 
Laurie  hotly.  "I've  never  had  a  girl  to  stay  all 
night — never.  I  asked  Azalea  because  it  was 
raining.  I  couldn't  tell  it  was  going  to  rain,  or 
that  I  was  going  to  ask  her.  I'm  old  enough  now 
to  use  some  sense,  I  hope,  and  I  want  it  so  that 
I  can  act  without  first  having  a  period  of  fast- 
ing and  prayer.  You  and  Aunt  Adnah  were  late 
to-night — " 

"My  dear,  it  is  the  first  time  we  have  been  late 
to  our  duties,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  since 
we  assumed  them." 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand  at  all.  I'm  glad 
you  were  late.  Why  shouldn't  you  be,  if  you 
wished?  And  your  duties — why  do  you  speak 
of  what  you  do  in  the  house  like  that?  It's  not 
a  duty  to  live  and  work  and  eat  and  sleep  and  all. 
It's  a  pleasure.  At  least,  that's  the  way  Carin 
and  Azalea  look  at  it.  What  I  wanted  to  say 
was  that  for  once  you  acted  on  impulse.  You 
stayed  till  meeting  was  out,  and  you  stopped  in 
to  see  some  sick  neighbors.  Well,  I  think  that's 
fine.  Now,  I  asked  my  friend  to  stay  all  night. 
No  preparation  is  needed.    The  cellar  is  burst- 


84    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

ing  with  food,  the  pantry  is  plumb  full  of  it; 
there's  milk  and  cream  to  float  a  town  and  butter 
enough  to  grease  all  the  engines  in  the  world — " 

"Annie  Laurie!" 

"Well,  Aunt  Adnah  wears  my  patience  out. 
I'm  going  to  ask  my  friends  here  when  it  seems 
best." 

"My  dear,  you  know  we  only  ask  you  to  use 
judgment." 

"Judgment?  I  don't  know  what  that  means. 
I'll  use  hospitality,  if  you  like,  and  courtesy — " 

"To  your  aunts,  among  others,  I  hope." 

"Bless  your  heart!"  Azalea  heard  Annie 
Laurie  cry  softly.  "You're  a  dear,  Aunt  Zillah. 
Was  I  ever  rude  to  you?" 

"Not  directly,  my  dear  child.  But  you  some- 
times speak  of  my  sister  in  a  manner  which  I 
cannot  regard  as  really  respectful." 

"Forgive  me.  Aunt  Zillah.  I've  too  much 
mustard  and  pepper  in  my  disposition.  But 
there's  the  supper  bell.  Azalea!  Azalea,  are 
you  ready?" 

They  sat  down  at  a  bountiful  table,  and  Sim- 
eon Pace  folded  his  hand  of  flesh  and  his  hand 
of  tin  together  and  prayed  long  and  loud — some- 
thing about  the  "sundering  of  joints  and  mar- 


A  RAINY  NIGHT  85 

row."  Azalea,  who  was  very  hungry,  hardly 
seemed  to  get  the  drift  of  these  words.  But  she 
was  startled  from  her  dazed  reverie  by  a  sharp 
inquiry  from  Mr.  Pace. 

"So  you  two  girls  were  asleep  there  before 
the  fire,  were  you?  Did  you  see  me  when  I 
came  in?"  He  turned  his  large  eyes — so  like  and 
yet  so  unlike  Annie  Laurie's — upon  first  one 
girl  and  then  the  other. 

"I  didn't,"  said  his  daughter. 

"And  you.  Miss  Azalea?" 

*'I  awoke  while  you  were  in  the  room,"  she 
said,  feeling  somewhat  like  Jack  when  he  talked 
with  the  Giant  Eater. 

"So?"  he  looked  at  her  sharply.  "Why  didn't 
you  speak?" 

"I — I  wasn't  sure  you'd  know  me,  sir."  She 
paused  a  moment  and  sat  steady  under  the  look 
he  kept  upon  her.  "Anyway,  I  was  just  as  good 
as  asleep — half  dreaming." 

"And  you  never  tell  your  dreams,  I  hope? 
It's  a  bad  habit." 

Azalea  smiled  at  him. 

"I  never,  never  tell  them,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Good,"  cried  Simeon  Pace.    "A  sensible  girl 


86    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

wouldn't,  of  course.     Let  me  serve  you  some 
meat,  Miss  Azalea." 

And  she  understood  clearly  that  she  had  given 
a  tacit  promise  that  she  would  not  tell  what  she 
had  seen;  and  Simeon  Pace  felt  the  reliable 
character  of  her,  beneath  her  soft,  girlish  aspect, 
and  trusted  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SUMMERS 

While  they  were  at  supper  a  strong  cold  wind 
sprung  up,  so  that  Mr.  Pace  had  to  heap  wood 
on  the  fire.  And  afterward,  when  the  two  girls 
ran  to  the  door,  they  could  see  that  the  sky  had 
cleared  and  the  stars  were  out,  looking,  it 
seemed,  unusually  large  and  bright  and  sociable. 

"Why  not  go  to  prayer  meeting?"  said  Aza- 
lea. 

"At  your  church  or  mine?" 

*'0h,  if  you  don't  mind,  Annie  Laurie,  at 
mine  this  time.  Dear  old  Elder  Mills  is  leav- 
ing, you  know.  You've  heard  how  sick  he  is 
with  the  rheumatism,  haven't  you?  He's  going 
down  to  Florida  where  the  climate  will  be  bet- 
ter for  him.  They  say  he's  wonderful  these  last 
few  weeks.  He's  trying  to  say  everything  he 
can  think  of  that  will  help  the  people  he's  known 
so  long.  I  love  to  hear  people  talk  when  they 
are  really,  really  in  earnest,  don't  you?" 

87 


88    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Annie  Laurie  looked  at  her  friend  under- 
standingly. 

"You  are  just  like  me,  Azalea;  you  always 
want  mountains  to  be  higher  than  they  really 
are,  and  stars  brighter,  and  sermons  deeper,  and 
friends  more  loving.  Nothing  is  ever  quite  big 
enough  to  suit  me — nor  quite  hard  enough." 

"Not  intense  enough,  Carin  would  say." 

"That's  it.  Yes,  let's  go  to  prayer  meeting. 
I'll  ask  father  if  I  may." 

They  presently  were  on  their  way,  walking 
briskly  because  they  were  late.  The  little 
Methodist  church  was  full  of  the  old  friends 
of  Elder  Mills,  who  as  he  stood  before  them,  his 
white  hair  hanging  around  his  shoulders,  his  face 
haggard  with  pain,  yet  had  a  look  in  his  eyes  of 
exaltation  and  joy  which  seemed  to  make  a  light 
thing  of  his  physical  distress. 

"Oh,  I  want  you  to  love  one  another,"  he  said 
during  the  evening.  "I  want  you  to  forgive  one 
another.  Be  honest,  be  brave  in  saying  what 
you  think,  live  truly,  avoid  lies.  Above  every- 
thing, avoid  lies — in  word  and  in  act." 

"For  goodness  sake,"  thought  Annie  Laurie, 
"Can't  preachers  find  anything  else  to  talk  about 
but  lies?    Whether  I  go  to  my  own  church  or 


THE  SUMMERS  89 

another,  that  seems  to  be  the  theme."  She  re- 
membered how  she  had  caught  Sam  Disbrow's 
eye  that  day  at  the  Baptist  church  when  the  min- 
ister had  been  talking  about  lies,  and  how  queer 
it  had  been  to  realize  that  she  was  reading  Sam's 
mind,  and  could  tell  that  he,  like  herself,  was 
wondering  why  the  preacher  kept  harping  on 
that.  Annie  Laurie's  mind  drifted  off  to  Sam's 
home — to  his  mother  who  never  was  well,  to 
their  untidy  little  house,  and  to  his  cross-eyed  sis- 
ter, who  never  would  make  friends  with  any- 
body. Sam  seemed  so  different  from  the  rest 
of  the  family,  with  his  hearty  downright  ways, 
his  energy,  his  determination  to  make  some- 
thing of  himself. 

Was  meeting  over?  She  aroused  herself  as 
from  a  dream. 

"There's  to  be  a  business  meeting,"  Azalea 
said  to  her  as  the  people  arose.  "They're  to  talk 
about  who  is  to  be  our  new  minister.  Since  it  is 
not  conference  time,  we  are  to  ask  for  some  one 
we  want,  and  then  if  the  bishop  thinks  best  we 
can  have  him." 

"I  see,"  said  Annie  Laurie  vaguely.  Though 
she  did  not  really  see. 

The  two  girls  started  out  together,  crowding 


90    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

softly  by  their  elders  who  were  gathered  about 
in  the  aisles  talking  over  the  trial  that  had  come 
to  the  church  in  losing  Elder  Mills,  and  in  being 
obliged  to  bring  a  new  minister  in  at  the  middle 
of  the  session.  And  then,  suddenly,  a  beautiful 
idea  came  to  Azalea.  Why  couldn't  they  ask 
the  Rev.  Absalom  Summers?  He  was  in  that 
tiny  backwoods  village  where  there  were  so  few 
to  hear  or  enjoy  him ;  and  he  was  such  a  wonder- 
ful man,  all  wrapped  up  in  his  religion,  and 
talking  about  it  as  if  it  must  be  the  business  of 
everyone.  And  if  he  came,  her  "pretend  cousin" 
Barbara,  his  wife,  would  come  also,  and  that 
blessed  baby,  Jonathan.  To  think  was  to  act 
with  Azalea,  now  as  always.  She  broke  from 
Annie  Laurie  and  ran  up  to  her  old  friend  and 
protector,  Haystack  Thompson. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thompson,  dear,"  she  whispered, 
"if  only  you  could  manage  to  put  in  a  word  for 
Mr.  Summers!  You  know  what  he  is — how  he 
talks  and  sings  and  laughs  and  keeps  everybody 
stirred  up.  He'd  put  life  into  any  church, 
wouldn't  he?  He's  just  wasted  down  in  that 
little  valley  where  he  lives.  Hardly  anybody 
comes  to  church,  and  those  who  do,  don't  like 


THE  SUMMERS  91 

him.  They  think  he's  too  new-fashioned.  But 
here  he'd  be  appreciated." 

"Well,  now,"  drawled  Mr.  Thompson,  run- 
ning his  hand  through  his  wild  head  of  hair — 
the  hair  that  gave  him  his  nickname  of  "Hay- 
stack"— "I  don't  know  but  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  that.  He  sure  has  got  a  lot  of  ginger  in 
him,  'the  power  of  the  Lord,'  he  calls  it,  and  I 
reckon  maybe  that's  what  it  is.  Anyway,  as  you 
insinuate,  Zalie,  the  Seven  Sleepers  would  have 
had  a  hard  time  of  it  trying  to  keep  up  their 
slumbers  anywhere  around  his  neighborhood." 

"And  then  Mrs.  Summers,"  went  on  Azalea 
breathlessly;  "think  what  she  would  mean  to  the 
church  1  She's  so  lively,  you  know,  and  so  inter- 
ested in  everyone — sorry  for  them  when  she 
ought  to  be,  and  happy  with  them  all  other 
times." 

"Sharin'  their  sorrows  an'  their  joys  with  'em, 
I  reckon  you  mean,  daughter." 

"Yes ;  and  the  baby — " 

"Of  course,  the  baby!  He'd  be  a  drawin'  card 
to  any  congregation." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thompson,  if  I  could  have  that 
baby  around  I'd — " 

"Yes?" 


92    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"I'd — I'd  be  good  all  the  rest  of  my  days." 
"Be  a  practicin'  Christian,  eh?  Well,  as  you 
say,  Summers  is  a  mighty  fetching  man — don't 
know  of  any  with  more — well,  more  radiation. 
I  reckon  I'd  better  mention  him  to  the  breth- 
erin.  Perhaps  the  bishop  would  hear  to 
his  being  moved  up  this  a-way — particularly  if 
I  told  him  you  was  wantin'  to  play  with  the 
baby." 

Azalea  never  cared  how  much  fun  her  kind 
old  Haystack  made  of  her.  He  had  followed 
her  over  mountains  and  through  valleys,  in  sun 
and  rain,  in  a  certain  terrible  episode  of  her  life, 
when  she  had  been  stolen  away  from  Mrs.  Mc- 
Birney  and  all  but  forced  back  into  her  hateful 
life  with  a  traveling  show,  and  she  let  him  joke 
and  fleer  all  he  pleased,  knowing  him,  as  she 
did,  for  one  of  her  staunchest  friends. 

"Yes,  please  do,"  she  urged.  "They're  just 
going  into  meeting  now.  Just  tell  them  how  he 
laughs  and  talks  and  cuts  up!" 

"Fine  recommendations  for  a  pastor!" 
"Well,  they  are,"  insisted  Azalea.    "Of  course 
they  are.    He  wants  everyone  to  be  as  good  and 
happy  as  he  is,  and  if  they  aren't,  he'll  find  out 
why." 


THE  SUMMERS  93 

Haystack  Thompson  brought  his  huge  brows 
together  and  regarded  Azalea  with  his  sharp 
eyes.  Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Then :  "Yes- 
sum,"  he  said,  and  moved  toward  the  front  to 
join  the  representative  members  of  the  congre- 
gation. 

So  it  came  about  that  a  month  later  Azalea 
had  the  great  happiness  of  knowing  that  her 
friends,  the  Reverend  Absalom  Summers  and 
his  wife  and  baby  were  coming  to  Lee  as  the  re- 
sult of  her  suggestion.  It  was  rather  a  joke 
among  those  who  knew  of  it.  "Azalea's  choice" 
they  called  the  new  minister.  But  it  was  no  joke 
to  Azalea.  It  meant  more  to  her  than  she  ever 
could  explain. 

"You  see,"  she  said  to  Carin,  "it's  ideas  that 
count — right  ideas.  Now,  I'm  a  person  of  no 
importance  whatever.  But  because  I  happened 
to  have  the  right  idea,  those  men  listened  to  me 
and  did  what  I  wanted  them  to  do." 

"And  the  point  of  it  all  is,"  laughed  Carin, 
"that  if  you  have  enough  right  ideas  and  can 
find  enough  persons  to  listen  to  them,  you'll  be 
important,  see?" 

"Don't  laugh,"  said  Azalea.     "If  you  knew 


94    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

what  it  meant  for  me  to  have  the  Summerses 
come — " 

"I  know  well  enough — know  too  well.  After 
they  come,  what  chance  will  I  have  of  getting 
your  attention?" 

"Carin,  how  can  you?  No  one  can  take  your 
place.  My  friends  are  all  separate.  I  can't 
spare  one,  and  not  one  can  take  the  place  of  an- 
other." 

They  were  in  Carin's  pony  cart  as  they  held 
this  conversation,  on  their  way  down  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  it  seemed  as  they  drove  along  the  one 
macadamized  road  in  the  county,  that  everyone 
they  knew  was  bent  in  the  same  direction. 

True,  it  was  nighttime,  but  the  lanterns  and 
lamps  revealed  the  identity  of  the  travelers. 
Amusements  were  not  many  at  Lee,  and  the  com- 
ing of  the  new  Methodist  minister  and  his  fam- 
ily was  an  event  worthy  of  notice.  Moreover, 
the  fame  of  the  Reverend  Absalom  Summers 
had  gone  abroad.  His  strong  bright  gifts,  his 
hearty,  brotherly  nature,  his  way  of  finding  noth- 
ing too  small  for  his  interest  or  too  great  for  his 
inquisitiveness,  had  won  him  friends.  So  they 
gathered — these  friendly,  waiting  neighbors — 


THE  SUMMERS  95 

in  the  draughty  little  waiting  room  of  the  sta- 
tion and  waited  for  the  nine  o'clock  train. 

The  peculiarities  of  this  nine  o'clock  train 
were  well  known.  It  had  acquired  a  habit  of 
arriving  at  about  a  quarter  of  ten,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  hands  of  the  clock  and  of  the  fre- 
quently consulted  watches  of  the  male  members 
approached  that  hour,  that  anyone  thought  of 
going  out  to  look  up  the  track.  But  there  it  was, 
sure  enough,  faithful  to  the  time  it  had  chosen 
for  itself.  Its  flaring  headlight  could  be  seen 
away  up  the  mountains.  The  air  was  nipping, 
and  the  company  of  watchers  shivered  together, 
but  they  would  none  of  them  go  back  into  the 
station  now  that  the  headlight  really  was  in 
sight. 

Moreover,  though  they  would  not  say  so,  they 
loved  to  be  out  among  the  mountains — those 
mountains  that  were  as  the  very  soul  of  their 
lives,  that  held  them  together,  that  gave  mean- 
ing to  their  secret  motives,  to  their  religion,  to 
their  daily  work.  They  loomed  now,  darkest 
purple  against  the  starry  sky.  The  wind  swept 
down  from  them,  fresh  with  an  indescribable 
freshness.  An  owl  called — was  silent — then 
called  again.  Lights  shone  out  from  the  houses 
in  the.  village,  and  from  the  scattered  cabins 


96    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

along  the  mountain  sides.  Now  and  then  there 
was  a  movable  light  high  on  the  mountain,  as 
some  hill  farmer  made  his  way  to  his  house  from 
a  neighbor's,  or  from  his  visit  to  town,  or  from 
looking  after  his  stock. 

The  headlight  disappeared  as  the  train  swept 
around  the  horseshoe  bend.  Then  it  burst  upon 
them  like  a  menacing  star.  It  rushed  towards 
them.  There  was  a  shriek  as  of  a  giant  taken 
prisoner.  The  train  was  there!  The  conductor 
got  down  and  exchanged  greetings,  and  an  enor- 
mously tall  and  thin  man  appeared,  carrying 
many  bundles. 

"There  he  is!  It's  the  Elder.  There's  Mr. 
Summers,"  cried  the  people.  They  surged  for- 
ward, pulled  the  man  from  the  steps,  seized 
his  bundles,  and  waited  while  he  assisted  a  little 
lady  to  alight. 

"Why,  she  isn't  as  large  as  we  are.  Azalea," 
whispered  Carin. 

"I  know,"  Azalea  whispered  back,  quivering 
as  she  hugged  her  companion's  arm.  "I  told 
you — " 

But  Carin  was  not  to  know  what  Azalea  had 
told  her,  for  at  that  moment  the  voice  of  the 
little  lady  was  heard  saying: 


THE  SUMMERS  97 

"And  Where's  Azalea?" 

It  was,  for  Azalea,  a  thrilling  moment.  Af- 
terward, thinking  it  all  over,  she  could  not  tell 
why  her  heart  so  leaped  at  that  first  word.  Was 
it  because  she  had  no  kin,  really,  that  this  voice 
of  loving  friendship  was  so  sweet  to  her?  Was 
it  that  she  was  proud — she  who  had  been  a 
wanderer  and  a  beggar — to  be  asked  for  before 
all  the  people?  Was  it  just  abounding  love  for 
Barbara  Summers,  her  "pretend  cousin"? 

It  made  no  difference,  really.  There  was  Bar- 
bara, her  dark  eyes  shining;  there  was  her  babe 
in  her  arms,  fresh  and  wonderful  from  sleep; 
and  there  was  his  mother  offering  him  to  Aza- 
lea. 

The  two  kissed  above  the  baby. 

"Honey  bunch !"  murmured  Azalea,  and  gath- 
ered him  into  her  arms. 

She  saw  nothing  of  how  the  people  came  for- 
ward to  make  Mr.  Summers  and  his  wife  wel- 
come; heard  nothing  of  what  Pa  McBirney  said 
to  them,  urging  them  into  his  comfortable  old 
mountain  wagon.  Even  the  voice  of  Carin  was 
vague  in  her  ears,  though  she  knew  she  was 
murmuring  her  appreciation  of  golden  curls 
and  blue  eyes,  of  tiny  teeth,  of  dimples,  or  chub- 


98    ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

by  little  hands.  But  nothing  that  anybody  could 
say  would  be  too  much,  Azalea  thought.  Her 
hungry  heart,  never  yet  satisfied,  with  all  the 
love  that  had  come  to  her,  wrapped  a  thousand 
quivering  tendrils  about  this  little  laughing 
child. 

"You  riding  with  Miss  Carin,  Zalie?"  asked 
Pa  McBirney. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  father.  We'll  drive  right  up 
to  the  parsonage,  won't  we,  Carin?" 

"As  fast  as  Mustard  can  take  us,"  replied 
Carin,  "The  baby  won't  mind  leaving  you  a 
moment,  will  he,  Mrs.  Summers?" 

Barbara  Summers  shook  her  head.  She  was 
not  given  to  passing  Jonathan  over  to  the  care 
of  others,  but  there  was  something  in  the  satis- 
fied expression  of  Azalea's  face  that  forbade  her 
to  take  him  away. 

Carin  turned  the  head  of  the  little  yellow 
pony  toward  the  Methodist  parsonage.  They 
had  a  hill  to  climb  and  a  dark,  curving  little 
road  to  traverse.  But  five  or  six  vehicles  were 
ahead  of  them,  and  Mustard,  who  felt  like  a 
mere  boy  in  the  horse  world,  and  who  always 
was  pleased  if  he  could  get  in  a  grown-up  affair 
of  any  kind,  trotted  along  importantly.     Lights 


THE  SUMMERS  99 

shone  out  from  among  the  armored  pines.  Aza- 
lea got  out  and  carried  Jonathan  through  the 
freshly  decorated  rooms,  with  their  newly  pol- 
ished furniture  and  snowy  curtains,  to  the  bed- 
room where  the  little  iron  cot  awaited  Jonathan. 
"Shut  the  door,  Carin  dear,"  she  whispered 
happily.  "Let's  undress  him.  His  mother  said 
we'd  find  his  nightie  in  that  bag." 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUNDAY 

*'Once  there  was  a  bear, 

And  he  made  his  pasture  there; 

And  he  crept,  and  he  crept,  and  he  crept, 

'Till  he  got  away  up  there!" 

"Gurgle — gurgle — gurgle !" 

"And  once  there  was  a  bear — " 

This  conversation  took  place  betwen  Azalea 
McBirney  and  Jonathan  Summers  one  Sunday 
morning  while  Jonathan's  mother  was  at  church. 
Azalea  had  been  to  Sunday-school,  and  had  run 
over  to  ask  her  "Cousin"  Barbara  if  she  wouldn't 
like  to  attend  service  to  hear  her  husband 
preach.  Barbara  would — Oh,  most  undeniably 
she  would.  It  was  her  firm  conviction  that  if 
all  men  could  hear  her  husband,  and  would  give 
heed  to  what  he  said,  they  would  be  able  to  re- 
sist all  temptations  and  would  live  in  peace  with 
the  world.  So  she  kissed  Azalea  and  permitted 
her  to  button  her  into  her  pretty  golden-brown 
frock,  and  then,  clapping  her  large  hat  over  her 

100 


SUNDAY  loi 

wayward  hair  and  putting  on  her  gloves  as  she 
hastened  down  the  street,  she  was  off,  her  heart 
beating  high  with  loving  pride  of  the  man  whose 
life  was  united  with  her  own,  and  who  had  al- 
ready found  warm  friends  in  his  new  parish. 

Jonathan  had  been  asleep  when  his  mother 
left  him,  but  it  was  not  long  before  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  about  him  to  see  whom  he 
could  get  to  serve  him.  For  Jonathan  was,  in 
his  own  opinion,  the  Prince  of  the  World,  and 
everyone  in  it  was  to  do  his  bidding.  He  pre- 
ferred, of  course,  his  chief  slave — the  one  called 
"Mamma" — and  not  seeing  her,  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  let  out  a  more  or  less  cheerful  roar, 
not  so  much  showing  rage,  as  a  healthful  imita- 
tion of  it. 

Azalea  was  delighted.  She  picked  him  up, 
fed  him  his  bottle,  arranged  him  among  the  sofa 
pillows,  and  then,  taking  a  dimpled  hand  in  her 
own,  she  pointed  delicately  to  the  rosy  palm. 

"Once  there  was  a  bear, 

And  he  made  his  pasture  there." 

It  must  have  been  a  particularly  small  bear  to 
have  pastured  in  such  a  tiny  pink  palm,  but  Jon- 
athan saw  nothing  inconsistent  in  it,  and  re- 
marked enthusiastically: 


I02  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Gurgle — gurgle — gurgle." 

The  bear  began  creeping  slyly  up  Jonathan's 
arm.  It  snuggled  for  a  moment  at  his  elbow, 
went  on — and  Jonathan  shivered  happily — up 
to  his  shoulder,  and  then  settled  right  down  in 
his  neck,  and  seemed  to  think  it  a  good  place 
to  stay.    At  least,  Jonathan  laughed  delightedly. 

Azalea  looked  at  him  with  her  soul  in  her 
eyes. 

"Mercy  me,"  she  sighed.  "How  well  I  under- 
stand kidnappers!" 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  once  been 
kidnapped  herself,  and  that  she  had  not  liked 
it  at  all. 

"Oh,  Jonathan,"  she  cried,  looking  at  him 
critically,  "it  seems  impossible  that  anything 
as  soft  and  lovely  as  you  are  can  grow  up  to  be 
just  a  hard,  common,  big  man!  If  only  I  could 
put  you  in  some  kind  of  a  preserve  jar  and  keep 
you  the  way  you  are,  I'd  just  give  anything. 
Tired  of  sitting  still?  Well,  come  to  Azalea, 
and  we'll  go  exploring.  It's  a  pretty  house,  isn't 
it?  But  my  goodness,  you  ought  to  have  seen  it 
a  little  while  ago!  It  was  as  dull  as  Monday 
washday. 

"Then,  when  it  was  decided  that  your  papa 


SUNDAY  103 

and  mamma  were  coming  here  to  live,  we  all 
turned  in  and  worked  like  sixty  to  make  it  look 
nice.  Haystack  Thompson — that's  the  man  that 
throws  you  up  so  high,  you  know — prepared  it 
with  his  own  hands.  But  you  make  up  your 
mind  we  didn't  let  him  pick  out  the  paper. 
Haystack  is  a  dear,  but  he  couldn't  be  trusted 
to  pick  out  wall  paper.  No,  sir,  my  friends 
Carin  and  Annie  Laurie  and  I  did  that.  Brown 
for  the  sitting  room,  and  green  for  the  dining 
room,  and  pink  and  pale  blue  for  the  bedrooms. 
"And  we  got  these  pretty  print  hangings  and 
covers — at  least,  Mrs.  Carson  paid  for  them  and 
we  picked  them  out.  And  Ma  McBirney  wove 
these  rugs — brown  for  the  sitting  room  and 
green  for  the  dining  room.  Aren't  they  beau- 
ties? And  Mr.  Carson  had  the  furniture  done 
at  his  shop — the  very  best  he  could  make.  And 
Sam  Disbrow,  he  brought  this  fern,  and  some- 
body else  sent  the  palm,  and  Carin  gave  the  pic- 
tures, and  Annie  Laurie  made  the  table  cover, 
and  I  don't  know  what  all.  You  see,  some  of 
these  people  don't  belong  to  your  church  at  all, 
Jonathan.  They  just  gave  these  things  because 
you  were  so  sweet  that  they  couldn't  bear  to  have 
you  come  into  any  but  a  pretty  house.    Dear  me. 


104  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

boy,  stop  pulling  my  hair!  You  treat  me  just 
as  if  I  were  a  step-child.  And  I'm  not.  I'm 
your  pretend  cousin — which  is  ever  and  ever 
so  much  nicer  than  being  a  real  cousin,  because 
you  do  your  own  picking  out." 

Jonathan  replied  after  his  own  manner,  and 
the  morning  wore  on  pleasantly.  Azalea  put 
the  potatoes  and  the  stew  over  to  cook,  and  made 
some  apple  sauce.  Then  she  set  the  table;  and 
"toted"  Jonathan  some  more.  For  once  she  for- 
got to  think.  The  sad  little  thoughts  that  would 
mope  around  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  because 
she  was,  after  all,  a  child  without  a  father  or  a 
mother,  kept  entirely  out  of  sight  that  morning. 
She  was  so  busy  that  she  could  waste  no  time 
whatever  on  merely  thinking;  and  the  first  thing 
she  knew  she  saw  the  people  pouring  along  the 
street  from  church. 

Annie  Laurie  drove  by  with  her  aunts  and 
her  father,  and  waved  to  Azalea.  Sam  Dis- 
brow  walked  by  with  his  father,  and  Azalea 
thought  what  a  dull  time  Sam  had  of  it,  with 
that  heavy  looking  father  with  his  hanging  head 
and  big,  rolling  eyes,  both  going  home  to  a 
mother  who  was  always  sick,  and  to  that  queer 
sister  of  Sam's,  who  had  too  much  work  to  do, 


SUNDAY  los 

and  who  never  seemed  to  want  to  talk  with  any- 
body. And  then  the  Carson  carriage  rushed  by 
with  black  Ben  driving,  and  Mr.  Carson,  so 
handsome  and  straight,  beside  him,  and  Carin 
and  Mrs.  Carson  on  the  back  seat  in  their  beauti- 
ful furs,  smiling  and  bowing  to  everybody. 

Then  the  McBirney  wagon  came,  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Summers  in  with  Pa  and  Ma  McBir- 
ney and  Jim.  And  Azalea  was  thanked  and 
kissed,  and  had  the  pain  of  seeing  Jonathan  tear 
himself  away  from  her  to  rush  to  his  mother's 
embrace,  and  then  Azalea  went  out  and  got  in 
with  her  foster  parents,  and  Pa  McBirney  hissed 
to  his  horses  in  an  odd  way  he  had,  and  they 
started  for  their  long  drive  up  the  mountain. 

"It  sure  is  a  mighty  curious  thing  how  that 
man  goes  on,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  McBirney  to  his 
wife  as  they  were  driving  by  the  prosperous 
dairy  farm  of  Simeon  Pace.  "He's  jest  rolling 
up  money,  but  no  one  can  tell  what  he  does  with 
it.  Heller,  the  banker,  he  says  nary  a  cent  of  it 
comes  his  way.  Pace  don't  believe  in  banks — 
got  stung  some  time  I  reckon,  and  lost  his  nest 
egg  by  the  busting  of  a  bank.  Anyhow,  he  hangs 
on  to  what  he  gets  nowadays.  It  beats  all  to 
see  anyone  so  old-fashioned.    Heller  says  he  sup- 


io6  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

poses  he  hides  it  away  in  his  old  stocking  or 
buries  it  in  the  yard.  I  suppose  I'm  something 
of  a  mossback  myself,  but  anyway  I  know 
enough  to  bank  my  money  when  I  get  it — which 
ain't  any  too  often." 

*'He  don't  look  like  such  an  old-fashioned 
man,  Simeon  Pace  don't,"  mused  Mrs.  McBir- 
ney.  "He  certainly  does  keep  his  place  up  right 
smart.  Them  cattle  o'  his'n  is  the  best  to  be 
seen  in  the  country,  and  everything  around  the 
place  is  right  up  in  G." 

"Well,  old-fashioned  he  is,  but  he's  far-seeing 
too.  About  five  years  ago  he  bought  the  Caruth 
Valley  and  all  the  uplying  land  beyond  it.  I 
couldn't  see  what  his  idea  was,  but  now  I  hear 
that  he's  selling  it  out  to  Mr.  Carson  for  five 
times  what  he  paid  for  it.  Mr.  Carson  wants  it 
for  the  water  power  on  it.  He's  adding  to  his 
factory,  you  see." 

"That  will  mean  work  for  a  good  many  more 
of  us  mountain  folks,"  observed  Mrs.  McBirney. 
"The  way  Mr.  Carson  has  opened  up  things 
for  us  is  just  stirring  to  think  about.  I  don't 
know  as  his  efforts  are  appreciated,  but  I,  for 
one,  know  who  I  have  to  thank  when  I  see  the 
new  things  in  the  house  and  the  good  new  clothes 


SUNDAY  107 

we've  been  able  to  get  for  the  children.  Why, 
only  this  morning  I  was  calling  Jim's  attention 
to  it.  'Look  at  you,'  I  said,  'in  your  store  clothes 
and  brown  shoes  and  new  overcoat  and  all.  You 
look  like  a  rich  man's  son,'  says  I.  And  I  de- 
clare to  goodness  when  I  got  out  this  here  new 
cloak  0'  mine,  and  this  bonnet  Mrs.  Carson  made 
for  me  out  of  silk  velvet  and  a  real  ostrich  tip, 
I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  me.  I'm  so  used 
to  wearing  rusty  black  that  I  don't  know  as  I 
feel  quite  at  home  in  good  deep  black  like  this 
a-here." 

Jim  McBirney,  who  was  sitting  on  the  back 
seat  with  Azalea,  not  caring  to  listen  longer  to 
the  conversation  of  his  elders  and  knowing  it 
was  bad  manners  to  disturb  them,  began  whis- 
pering. 

"I  went  to  Sam  Disbrow's  house  last  evening, 
sis."  When  Jim  said  "evening"  he  meant  after- 
noon. 

"Did  you,  Jim?    What  was  it  like?" 

"Shades  all  down — rooms  all  hot — Mrs. 
Disbrow  lying  on  the  settle — Hannah  sitting  by 
her,  knitting  and  knitting,  and  her  eyes  so  crossed 
you  couldn't  think  how  she  could  do  anything 
but  cross  stitch." 


io8  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 


iiji. 


'I'm  sorry  for  Hannah.  That's  a  dreadful 
life  to  lead — being  shut  up  all  the  time  with  a 
sick  person.  I've  a  good  mind  to  give  her  a 
party  if  mother  will  let  me." 

''Give  Hannah  Disbrow  a  party?  Why,  she'd 
run  like  a  hare  if  she  saw  anybody  coming,  and 
she'd  drop  her  ice  cream  and  go  home  crying. 
I  know  Hannah." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  had  made  girls  and  their 
outlandish  ways  his  particular  study. 

"Well,  anyway,  I'm  going  to  see  her.  And 
I'll  get  the  other  girls  to  go." 

"Oh,  yes,  th'  other  girls!  Why,  Zalie,  you 
can't  move  around  by  your  lone  no  more;  you're 
just  hitched  on  to  them  friends  of  yours.  Ain't 
you  ever  going  to  have  any  separate  thoughts 
again?" 

Azalea  laughed  lightly,  and  at  the  chime  of 
her  merriment  Mary  JMcBirney  turned  around 
to  look  at  the  occupants  of  the  rear  seat.  It  was 
at  such  times  that  Azalea  loved  her  most — when 
the  light  of  love  flooded  her  face  with  its  high 
brow  and  soft  eyes.  It  always  made  Azalea  feel 
as  if  there  must  be  a  lamp  burning  there  behind 
the  kind  face.  She  gave  a  pleasant,  inarticulate 
murmur  that  served  better  than  words  to  let  the 


SUNDAY  109 

children  know  that  her  love  was  round  about 
them.  Then  she  turned  back  to  resume  her  con- 
versation with  her  husband,  and  the  horses — 
nimble  mountain-climbers — pulled  on  up  the 
road  steadily,  stopping  now  and  again  to 
breathe,  and  then  sweeping  around  another 
curve  of  the  ever  winding  road. 

Azalea  amused  herself  by  noticing  the  little 
plateaus  or  "benches"  along  the  mountain  side. 
She  played  a  little  game  with  herself,  building 
imaginary  houses  in  this  cove  or  on  that  bench 
among  the  maples.  There  was  one  place  in 
particular,  where  three  lofty  tulip  trees  guarded 
a  spring  of  cold  water,  and  where  there  was  a 
little  almost  level  cove  from  which  one  could 
look  ofif  for  miles  and  miles  along  the  purple 
valley,  where  she  put  first  one  sort  of  a  house 
and  then  another. 

When  she  began  thinking  of  it,  she  built — in 
her  mind  of  course — a  little  house  of  cedar  logs, 
with  an  open  chamber  between,  like  the  one  she 
now  called  home;  but  as  time  went  on  she 
changed  her  plans.  Barbara  Summers  had 
tried  to  persuade  her  that  a  rambling  bungalow 
of  pine,  with  high  chimneys  and  wide  porches 
would  be  the  thing;  and  Carin  had  been  in  favor 


no  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

of  a  cement  bungalow  with  a  pergola  with 
trumpet  vines  growing  over  it.  Annie  Laurie 
thought  it  would  be  better  to  have  a  tent 
pitched  there,  and  to  eat  off  wooden  plates  and 
use  paper  napkins. 

''Then  you  could  heave  everything  into  the 
fire,"  said  this  practical  young  woman,  "and 
there'd  be  no  dishes  to  wash." 

As  they  passed  the  place  this  Sunday  Azalea 
asked  Jim  what  kind  of  a  house  he  thought  it 
would  be  best  to  put  up  there,  but  Jim  was  not 
fond  of  playing  at  air  castles. 

"We-all  don't  own  the  land,"  he  said,  "and 
we  ain't  got  the  money  for  the  house,  so  what's 
the  use  of  talking?" 

Azalea  felt  just  a  trifle  out  of  patience. 

"The  use  of  talking,"  she  said  rather  sharply, 
"is  that  it  interests  you." 

"Keeping  still  interests  me  all  right." 

"Keep  still,  then,  if  you  want  to.  I'm  sure 
I've  plenty  to  think  about." 

It  was  then  that  Mary  McBirney  began  sing- 
ing softly: 

"  'Sweet  are  the  hillsides,  pleasant  are  the  val- 
leys, ^ 
Bright  is  the  sky  o'er  the  home  of  my  heart.'  " 


SUNDAY  III 

Both  Azalea  and  Jim  knew  very  well  why 
she  was  singing.  She  never  could  bear  to  re- 
prove them;  and  she  had  a  little  theory  that 
music  could  drive  out  any  evil  spirit.  Such 
music  as  she  made  ought  to,  certainly,  the  chil- 
dren thought,  sitting  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
ashamed  of  their  stupid  quarrel.  Neither  one 
was  of  the  sort  to  sulk.  Jim  gave  a  little  twist 
on  his  seat,  and  joined  in  the  fourth  line: 

"  'And  my  home,  gentle   friend,     is  wherever 
thou  art.'  " 

Azalea  loved  the  quaint  old  song.  It  was  one 
of  many  such  which  Mary  McBirney  knew. 

"I'd  love  to  see  the  words  and  music  of  the 
songs  you  sing,  mother,"  Azalea  had  said  to  her 
once.  "Where  can  I  find  them?  Are  they  in 
any  of  the  books  you  have?" 

But  Mary  McBirney  had  shaken  her  head 
with  a  smile. 

"The  mountain  folks  have  many  a  song  that 
never  yet  has  been  writ  down,  child,"  she  said. 
"In  the  lonely  nights  in  the  little  cabins  away 
back  on  the  mountains,  all  still  and  peaceful, 
the  folks  weave  the  songs  out  of  their  hearts. 
Grandmothers  and  mothers  and  daughters  have 
sung  them,  and  not  one  of  them  all  had  the 


112  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

knowledge  to  write  them  down.  They  make 
me  think  of  wild  roses.  They  grow  beside  the 
roadway_,  and  they  are  the  sweetest  of  them  all." 

"  'Early  in  the  morning  I  can  hear  the  thrushes 
singing,'  "  Mary  McBirney  sang  on,  and  Azalea, 
joining  in,  put  all  her  love  for  the  sweet  woman 
into  the  words  : 

"  'Dear  as  the  voice  that  I  love  best  of  all.'  " 

They  stopped  at  the  waterfall  for  the  horses 
to  drink.  The  cataract  leaped  down  delicately 
and  gayly  from  the  height  above,  paused  at  the 
roadway,  rippling  along  among  the  pebbles  at 
the  edges  and  rushing  between  the  great  boul- 
ders in  the  center  of  the  ford,  and  then  with  a 
wild  laugh  plunged  oflf  over  the  edge  and 
foamed  down  the  mountain  side.  The  sky  was 
rather  overcast  on  this  particular  day,  and  the 
trees  wore  a  patient  look;  even  the  waterfall 
seemed  subdued,  and  its  rush  of  sound  was  more 
liquid  and  less  like  music  than  on  brighter  days. 
A  heaviness  and  quietude  lay  over  everything. 
But  the  McBirneys  loved  the  mountain  in  all 
its  moods,  and  little  by  little  they  set  themselves 
to  fit  in  with  its  whims,  so  that  by  the  time  they 
reached  their  home  they  were  quiet,  too. 

But  they  were  happy — Oh,  most  distinctly, 


SUNDAY  113 

they  were  that.  They  loved  every  inch  of  the 
old  place.  The  cabin  of  logs,  divided  in  the 
center  with  an  open  air  chamber,  the  little  loft 
where  Azalea  slept,  looking  up  the  mountain 
side,  the  Pride  of  India  tree  beneath  which  lay 
the  graves  of  little  Molly  McBirney  and  of 
Azalea's  poor  mother,  the  tulip  trees  at  the  out- 
look, the  little  smithy,  the  stable,  the  barn,  the 
smoke  house,  the  corn  crib,  the  chicken  house 
and  the  bee  hives,  the  pigeon  coops  and  the 
swinging  gourds  where  the  martins  nested,  all 
were  dear  to  them.  Vines,  flowers,  and  bushes 
grew  all  about  them.  The  farm  slanted  down  the 
hillside  at  a  dangerous  angle,  bat  contrived  to 
soak  into  its  produce  the  sweet  Southern  sun, 
and  it  gave  of  its  rich  bounty  in  return  for 
Thomas  McBirney's  hard  toil. 

Human  care  and  enthusiasm  showed  in  every 
foot  of  it.  Even  the  most  casual  passer-by  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  here  was  a  home  in  which 
people  lived  who  loved  life  and  each  other. 

"Happy  and  good  folk  live  here,"  it  seemed 
to  say. 

And  there  were,  first  and  last,  a  good  many 
to  read  its  message,  for  it  was  on  the  highway 
and  whoever  came  over  Tennyson   Mountain 


114  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

down  to  Lee  must  pass  almost  through  the  door- 
way. 

This  gray,  pleasant  Sunday,  Mrs.  McBirney 
and  Azalea  jumped  from  the  wagon  at  the  house 
door,  and  Jim  and  his  father  went  on  to  the 
stable  to  look  after  the  horses.  The  cow  was 
munching  contentedly  in  her  stall,  but  the  chick- 
ens seemed  a  little  depressed  and  in  need  of  their 
midday  drink  of  hot  water  and  their  feeding  of 
hot  meal.  The  pigeons  cooed  chillily  from  their 
cote.  As  for  the  horses,  they  knew  almost  as 
much  about  unhitching  as  their  betters,  and  if 
either  Jim  or  Mr.  McBirney  had  done  anything 
they  ought  not  to  have  done  they  would  have 
turned  their  critical  eyes  upon  them.  The  real 
pride  of  Jim's  heart,  however,  was  the  two  ponies 
which  he  and  Azalea  rode  to  school.  They  had 
been  the  gift  of  Mr.  Carson  to  them,  and  they 
were  the  brothers  of  Carin's  pony.  Mustard,  and 
bore  the  exciting  names  of  Pepper  and  Paprika. 

Jim  lingered  for  a  moment  or  two,  loath  to 
leave  them.  He  loved  the  velvet  noses  of  them 
the  friendly  eyes  and  the  warm  heaving  sides. 
They  muzzled  him,  and  he  put  their  noses  in 
his  neck  and  gave  them  to  understand  that  their 
afifection  was   returned.     The  cool,   damp   air 


SUNDAY  115 

billowing  in  at  the  door  was  delicious,  and  he 
almost  hated  to  go  in  the  house. 

"What's  the  use  in  living  in  houses?"  he 
thought.  He  had  known  a  young  fellow  who 
traveled  over  the  mountains  all  the  time  with 
two  ponies.  One  he  rode,  the  other  carried  his 
pack  which  consisted  of  a  hammock,  a  frying 
pan,  some  blankets  and  a  square  of  canvas,  out 
of  which  he  could,  at  need,  fashion  a  sort  of 
tent.  He  never  had  slept  under  a  roof  since  he 
was  a  baby.  Jim  thought  of  this  boy  as  a  very 
fortunate  fellow.  He  chose  not  to  remember 
the  desperate  ill  health  that  had  driven  the  lad 
into  the  life.  However,  he  must  go  in  the  house, 
he  must!  Ma  had  got  the  fire  going  in  the  kit- 
chen, judging  from  the  smoke  that  rolled  from 
the  chimney.  Well,  he  was  glad  he  didn't  have 
to  build  it.  He  didn't  feel  like  doing  anything 
just  then — except,  perhaps,  sitting  by  the  door 
and  looking  off  at  the  valley.  Usually  when  he 
wanted  to  do  this,  some  one  straightway  thought 
of  some  chore  for  him.  So  he  slid  softly  onto 
the  bench,  sitting  where  he  could  be  seen  neither 
from  the  door  nor  the  window,  and  fell  into  a 
comfortable  though  somewhat  hungry  day 
dream. 


ii6  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Meantime,  odors  of  frying  chicken  were 
wafted  to  him,  along  with  the  smell  of  slightly 
burned  corn  cake  and  very  good  coffee.  The 
odors  grew  stronger  and  pleasanter  and  after 
a  time  Jim  decided  that  he  wasn't  doing  right 
to  stay  outside  while  everyone  was  working  in 
the  house.  It  really  was  his  duty  to  go  in.  So 
in  he  went.  The  fire  was  leaping,  the  table  was 
set,  his  mother  was  bustling  around  in  her  calico 
dress,  Azalea  was  putting  the  chairs  to  the  table, 
and  his  father  looked  ready  primed  for  a  long 
Sunday  grace. 

It  proved  to  be  even  longer  than  Jim  had 
feared.  Thomas  McBirney  was  one  of  those 
who  count  it  a  fault  if  they  neglect  to  mention 
every  event  of  their  lives  to  the  Almighty.  He 
thanked  the  Lord  for  their  united  family,  for 
food  and  fire,  for  roof  and  friends,  for  the  privi- 
lege of  attending  divine  service,  and  for  the 
love  of  God  which  warmed  their  hearts.  Mean- 
time his  son's  eyes  wandered  restlessly  from  the 
heaped  plate  of  chicken  to  the  bowl  of  gravy 
and  "fixin's."  He  wondered  if  he  would  have 
no  more  than  a  "drumstick"  and  why  there 
should  be  such  intimate  relations  between  boys 
and    drumsticks.      The    world    over,    fathers 


SUNDAY  117 

seemed  to  think  they  should  go  to  their  sons. 
No  doubt  Chinese  fathers  held  just  the  same 
opinion. 

Imagine  then,  his  surprise — his  unbelieving 
surprise — when  his  father,  having  first  served 
his  mother  and  Azalea,  took  the  "wish-bone," 
beautifully  burdened  with  tender  white  meat 
and  laid  it  on  Jim's  plate. 

"For  a  good  boy,"  he  said,  as  he  heaped  on  the 
potatoes  and  gravy,  and  passed  the  corn  bread. 
"Once  in  a  while,  Jim,  we  men  folks  have  to 
set  ourselves  against  these  here  women,  eh? 
Them  with  their  wishbones!  Who  said  they 
was  to  eternally  have  the  wishbones?  No  king 
that  ever  I  hearn  tell  of.  I  say,  let's  head  a 
revolution  and  declare  that  they  ken  have  only 
every  other  wishbone.    That's  fair,  ain't  it?" 

A  nice,  warm  feeling  gathered  in  Jim's  heart. 
It  was  splendid  to  have  a  dad  like  that — a  dad 
who  could  tell  what  was  going  on  in  a  fellow's 
mind.  And  his  mother  and  Azalea  seemed  to 
be  glad  he  had  the  wishbone,  too.  They  were 
looking  at  him  just  the  way  a  fellow  likes  to 
have  his  family  look  at  him.  My,  what  a  nice 
day  Sunday  was!  And  wasn't  he  glad  he  had 
helped  haul  those  hickory  logs!     And  wasn't 


ii8  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

the  room  nice,  with  the  settle  there  next  the  fire, 
and  the  old  clock  tickin',  tickin'  away,  and  strik- 
ing now  and  then  with  a  voice  like  Haystack 
Thompson's  when  he  led  in  prayer.  And  there 
was  a  white  table  cloth  on  for  Sunday,  and  Ma 
was  smiling  almost  the  way  she  used  before 
Molly  died.  And  the  cat  was  stretching  herself, 
and  outside,  Peter,  the  hound,  was  sniffling  to 
let  them  know  he  was  there  and  hadn't  had  his 
dinner  yet. 

"Goodness  gracious,"  sighed  Jim,   "ain't  it 
lucky  we're  all  alive!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   SIGNAL 

Night  came  down  sweetly  over  the  mountain 
that  quiet  day.  It  wrapped  the  village  in  soft 
gray  folds ;  the  stars  came  out  hazily  and  shone 
with  a  misty  golden  light;  the  wind  merely 
whispered  in  the  pines  and  the  hemlocks,  and 
the  sound  of  the  falling  water  was  lonely  and 
sad  in  the  ears  of  Azalea. 

Yet  she  had  to  be  out  in  the  night  because — 
well,  that's  a  secret.  At  least  it  was  a  secret  from 
Jim.  Because  he  would  have  laughed.  She 
was  to  signal  the  other  two  girls.  It  had  been 
agreed  upon. 

"You  see,  I  nearly  die,  Sundays,"  Annie 
Laurie  had  said.  "Our  house — really  I  can't 
describe  our  house  on  Sunday.  I  feel  as  if  my 
heart  were  turning  into  old  red  sandstone." 

To  have  the  strong-beating  heart  of  Annie 
Laurie  turn  into  structural  rock  was  something 
the  friends  could  not  permit.    Anyway  it  would 

be  an  excellent  thing  for  Azalea  in  the  moun- 

119 


120  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

tain  to  know  that  her  friends  in  the  valley  were 
doing  well.  She  could  tell  if  they  were  doing 
well,  if  the  lantern  was  waved  sideways;  if  any- 
thing was  wrong  it  was  to  be  swung  up  and 
down. 

"But  I  reckon  you-all  had  better  not  swing 
it  up  and  down,"  she  had  said,  "for  though  I'll 
know  by  that  that  something  is  wrong,  of  course 
I  won't  know  what  it  is.  And  the  waiting  to 
find  out  would  be  dreadful." 

"It  will  have  to  be  a  pretty  dreadful  'some- 
thing' to  make  us  give  the  bad  signal,  won't  it, 
Annie  Laurie?"    Carin  had  remarked. 

So  it  was  with  a  light  heart  and  a  mysterious 
manner  that  Azalea,  who  was  supposed  to  leave 
the  kitchen-l'iving  room  to  go  to  her  own  little 
loft,  stole  out  the  back  way,  took  the  lantern 
from  its  nail,  lighted  it,  and  crept  to  the  out- 
look. She  had  five  minutes  to  wait  before  the 
time  appointed,  and  these  moments  proved  to 
be  a  "perfect  caution"  for  slowness.  She  counted 
the  seconds  to  make  sure — and  yet  was  not  sure, 
for  she  managed  to  get  in  about  two  counts  and 
a  half  to  each  second.  However,  at  last  she  felt 
justified  in  bringing  out  her  light  from  behind 
the  tree  bole  where  she  had  hidden  it,  and  wav- 


THE  SIGNAL  121 

ing  it  back  and  forth  in  enthusiastic  announce- 
ment that  all  was  right.  She  couldn't  help 
thinking  with  a  throb  of  the  heart  how  very, 
very  right  it  all  was!  How  sweet  the  day  had 
been ;  how  filled  with  comfort  for  body  and  soul ; 
how  beautiful  to  be  loved  as  she  was  loved  in 
that  little  home  I  Of  course  she  might  have 
repined  that  she  had  not  been  made  Carin's 
adopted  sister  and  surrounded  with  all  manner 
of  luxuries,  but  the  love  she  felt  for  Mrs.  Mc- 
Birney  was  too  deep,  too  sincere,  to  permit  such 
a  thought  to  have  a  place  in  her  heart  for  very 
long. 

Yes,  her  home  was  a  log  cabin,  and  her  family 
simple  mountain  people.  But  she  could  not 
feel  cheated.  The  taste  of  the  Things  That 
Were  was  sweet  on  her  palate,  and  her  hope  for 
the  future  bubbled  in  her  heart  as  the  spring, 
whose  whispering  she  could  hear,  bubbled  from 
the  ground. 

So  back  and  forth  in  the  gray  air  went  her 
lantern,  saying: 

*'A11  is  well!    All  is  well!" 

Azalea  actually  laughed  aloud  to  think  of 
Carin,  all  in  her  Sunday  best,  stealing  out  of 
that  stately  drawing-room  and  creeping  up  the 


122^  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

stairs  to  the  huge  cupola  and  standing  there  on 
the  roof  in  the  wind  and  night,  waving  her  lan- 
tern. What  fun  it  was  to  know  a  girl  like  that — 
a  girl  who  wasn't  afraid  to  do  things,  if  she  ivas 
rich  and  beautiful.  There  was  some  "go"  in 
Carin,  no  doubt  about  it,  though  she  did  look  so 
delicate  and  alabasterish.  Azalea  loved  to  invent 
words,  and  she  invented  "alabasterish"  on  the 
moment. 

But  what  di^  that  mean?  Annie  Laurie's  lan- 
tern, full  and  strong  and  like  a  star,  had  shone 
through  the  light  mist  and  was  being  waved 
frantically  up  and  down.    Mercy!  how  it  waved. 

"All  is  wrong!    All  is  wrong!"  it  protested. 

What  could  that  mean?  Carin,  of  course, 
would  know  in  a  few  minutes.  She  would  tele- 
phone. But  Azalea  had  no  telephone  and  she 
would  not  be  allowed  to  ride  to  the  valley  at 
night. 

"All  is  wrong — oh,  very,  very,  wrong!"  the 
lantern  kept  on  saying. 

What  could  she  do  to  let  Annie  Laurie  know 
that  she  understood?  Poor  Annie  Laurie,  who 
was  brave  about  everything!  It  was  a  real 
trouble,  Azalea  felt  sure.  Had  one  of  the  aunts 
fallen  and  broken  a  bone?    Could  Mr.  Pace  be 


Back  and  forth  went  her  lantern,  saying : 
"All  is  well!    All  is  well!" 


THE  SIGNAL  123 

ill?  Were  the  cattle  poisoned?  Azalea  took 
her  lantern  and  twisted  it  around  and  around 
until  it  must  have  looked  to  Annie  Laurie  like 
a  snare  of  fireflies.  Then  Carin,  understanding, 
did  the  same  thing.  After  that  it  was  dark  on 
Carin's  roof;  then  Annie  Laurie's  lantern  dis- 
appeared too.  They  had  gone  to  the  telephone, 
Azalea  inferred. 

She  stamped  back  through  the  dew,  hot  with 
impatience.  "I  shan't  sleep  a  wink  to-night," 
she  declared. 

She  undressed  in  anguish  of  soul,  sank  on  her 
knees  and  sent  up  a  fervent  prayer  for  her 
friend,  and  then  throwing  herself  on  what  she 
expected  and  desired  to  be  a  sleepless  bed,  fell 
fast  asleep.  ^ 

Yet  in  her  sleep  she  had  many  dreams,  and  in 
each  of  them  Annie  Laurie  appeared,  always  in 
some  horrid  plight.  Now  wolves  were  chasing 
her;  now  she  had  fallen  over  the  cataract;  now 
the  horses  were  running  away  with  her;  now 
she  was  speeding  down  the  road  again,  away 
from  the  scorn  of  her  schoolmates,  and  little 
drops  of  blood  were  falling  on  the  road  from 
her  shattered  heart. 

But  none  of  these  things  were  anywhere  near 


124  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

the  truth,  though  nothing  could  be  more 
terrible  to  Annie  Laurie  than  what  actually  had 
happened. 

It  had  come  about  after  church.  Dinner  was 
over;  the  house  had  been  tidied,  and  the  two 
aunts  and  Mr.  Pace  and  Annie  Laurie  sat  in  the 
sitting  room  before  a  fine  fire.  The  aunts  had 
taken  out  their  pious  books  and  were  reading 
them.  Mr.  Pace  was  engaged  in  plodding  sleep- 
ily through  somebody's  account  of  the  "Thirty 
Year's  War."  As  for  Annie,  she  was  supposed 
to  be  writing  to  a  friend,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
she  was  scribbling  some  verses  which  she  meant 
to  show  to  the  girls  the  next  day.  Nibbling  the 
end  of  one's  pen  is  more  or  less  of  a  necessity 
when  one  is  writing  verses,  and  Annie  Laurie, 
having  got  as  far  as  that — and  not  much  farther 
— was  sampling  the  fine  inky  flavor  of  hers,  and 
so  chanced  to  look  up  and  to  let  her  glance  fall 
on  her  father. 

At  first  she  was  only  conscious  that  his  expres- 
sion was  not  quite  familiar  to  her.  Then — well, 
then  suddenly  and  terribly,  she  saw  that  he  was 
indeed  changed — that  something  frightful  had 
happened  to  him.  She  sprang  toward  him,  call- 
ing his  name. 


THE  SIGNAL  i^i, 

"Father— father!" 

But  no  answer  came. 

The  aunts  came  running,  terror  in  their  faces. 

"Paralysis,"  said  Miss  Adnah.  "Zillah,  call 
the  doctor.  Azalea,  help  me  lay  him  down — 
yes,  on  the  floor.  Open  the  window.  Go  get 
his  bed  ready,  Zillah,  after  you've  got  the  doctor. 
We  and  the  doctor  between  us  must  get  him  in 
bed." 

Annie  Laurie  did  all  she  was  told.  She 
couldn't  realize  what  had  happened.  Something 
seemed  to  be  whirling  around  and  around  in 
her  brain,  and  all  it  said  was: 

"Isn't  Aunt  Adnah  wonderful?  Isn't  Aunt 
Adnah  wonderful?" 

She  was  indeed  a  general  in  times  of  trouble. 
Why,  once  when  she  was  young — but  there  isn't 
time  to  tell  Aunt  Adnah's  story  now. 

There  was  time  for  nothing,  it  seemed.  It  had 
come  like  a  lightning-flash.  Even  the  doctor 
was  unable  to  aid.  Simeon  Pace  lay  in  his  bed, 
looking  at  them  with  tortured  eyes.  It  seemed 
to  Annie  Laurie  that  he  was  trying  to  make  her 
understand  something — with  all  his  vanishing 
power  he  was  trying  to  give  her  some  important 
piece  of  information.     She  put  her  ear  to  his 


126  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

lips;  she  listened  with  the  very  ears  of  her  soul; 
but  the  thing  he  wished  her  to  know  went  into 
silence  with  him.  A  dread  convulsion  brought 
the  end. 

Annie  Laurie,  standing  aghast,  knew  she  was 
fatherless  as  well  as  motherless.  Yet  it  couldn't 
be!  Why,  only  a  little  while  before  everything 
had  been  well.  Had  been  well  I  That  reminded 
her  of  the  signal  they  were  to  send — the  signal 
that  was  to  remind  each  member  of  the  Girl's 
Triple  Alliance  that  they  had  not  forgotten  each 
other.  And  they  had  agreed  not  to  send  the 
"bad"  message  unless  something  very  terrible 
happened.  They  had  laughed  about  it!  And 
now  the  terrible  thing  really  had  happened.  Or 
had  it?  Was  it,  perhaps,  only  a  frightful  dream? 
But  no,  it  was  true — and  her  heart  ached  so!  If 
only  the  girls  knew!  Well,  she  would  tell  them. 
She  sat  near  the  clock,  watching  it.  Perhaps 
when  she  let  the  girls  know,  her  throat  wouldn't 
ache  so  with  that  new,  strange,  crushing  pain. 
Perhaps  her  eyeballs  would  cease  burning. 
How  busy  it  seemed  around  the  house!  People 
were  coming  and  going.  They  stopped  to  speak 
to  her,  and  she  found  herself  saying  mechanic- 
ally: 


THE  SIGNAL  127 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  are  very  kind.  To-mor- 
row I'll  understand  better.  Thank  you — to-mor- 
row." 

Out  of  sheer  compassion  they  left  her  alone. 

Seven  o'clock.  It  was  time  for  the  signal. 
She  found  the  lantern  and  made  her  way,  un- 
seen, to  the  roof.  Azalea's  light  shone  at  her 
from  the  gray  air,  far,  far  up  the  ridge.  Carin's 
light  flashed  from  the  roof  of  the  mansion.  All 
was  well  with  them.  They  were  laughing — 
Annie  Laurie  knew  they  were  laughing.  And 
she — she  waved  her  lantern  up  and  down  and 
up  and  down  with  a  kind  of  passion.  She  must 
make  them  know  how  deep  was  the  sorrow  that 
had  befallen  her.  And  they  seemed  to  know. 
It  was  as  if  she  could  feel  the  streams  of  their 
sympathy  rolling  toward  her.  Yes,  they  under- 
stood. That  queer  fluttering  of  their  lanterns 
assured  her  of  it.  Annie  Laurie  left  her  roof 
and  descending  into  the  attic,  sank  on  an  old  set- 
tle there.  She  dragged  a  horse  blanket  over  her 
and  at  last  the  storm  of  her  anguish  broke,  and 
she  wept  and  wept. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MYSTERY 

Was  it  a  long  time — weary  hours  and  hours 
— before  Annie  Laurie  found  her  way  down 
the  stairs?  She  never  could  be  sure.  A  man, 
whom  she  did  not  at  first  recognize,  was  leaving 
her  father's  room.  For  a  second  she  felt  like 
rushing  at  him  to  tell  him  that  he,  a  stranger, 
should  not  be  in  there — in  that  sacred  chamber 
where  her  father  lay  dead  and  defenseless.  Then 
she  saw  that  it  was  Mr.  Disbrow,  the  under- 
taker, and  realized  what  his  task  had  been.  He 
had  been  making  her  father  ready  for  his  last 
resting  place. 

But  surely  the  man  was  not  ashamed  of  his 
task!  He  shot  one  glance  at  Annie  Laurie,  and 
then  without  speaking,  hastened  down  the  stairs 
and  out  of  the  front  door.  Was  he  sorry  for  her 
and  at  a  loss  to  say  how  sorry,  and  so  had  run 
away?  Annie  Laurie  could  understand  that. 
She  would  have  felt  much  the  same  way  herself. 

Yet  it  was,  she  decided,  an  odd  way  for  a  man  to 

128 


THE  MYSTERY  129 

feel  who  was  so  often  in  the  house  of  mourning 
as  an  undertaker  naturally  would  be.  How- 
ever, it  mattered  little.  She  was  glad  he  hadn't 
spoken  to  her.  And  yet,  when  she  thought  of 
him  as  Sam's  father,  it  was  curious  that  he  hadn't. 
Of  course  it  might  be  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  good  friendship  which  existed  between  Sam 
and  herself,  and  he  might  not  approve  of  it  any- 
way. The  Disbrows  were  great  for  keeping  to 
themselves.  So  were  the  Paces,  but  the  Paces 
were  busy  folk;  they  liked  their  neighbors  even 
if  they  didn't  see  much  of  them.  But  one  always 
had  the  feeling  that  the  Disbrows  shut  them- 
selves away  from  society  because  they  had  some- 
thing against  it — nobody  quite  knew  what.  Only 
Sam — Sam  was  different.  He  was  made  to  live 
in  the  world  and  to  enjoy  it. 

A  vision  of  him,  wide-shouldered,  brown- 
haired — his  hair  would  have  curled  a  trifle  if  he 
had  not  continually  discouraged  it — brown-eyed, 
smiling,  frank,  energetic,  arose  before  Annie 
Laurie.  He  had  a  ringing  laugh,  and  the  neigh- 
bors said  he  dared  to  laugh  even  in  that  silent 
shut-up  house  where  his  mother  lay  on  her  sofa, 
with  mouse-like,  cross-eyed  Hannah  watching 
beside  her.     It  came  over  Annie  Laurie  that 


I30  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

she  had  disliked  them  for  things  that  were  none 
of  their  fault.  Mrs.  Disbrow  couldn't  help  be- 
ing ill;  Hannah  couldn't  help  being  cross-eyed; 
and  it  was  beautiful  of  her  to  be  always  beside 
her  mother. 

Yet,  as  she  paced  the  floor  of  her  bedroom 
thinking  about  her  father,  with  her  tortured 
thoughts  leaping  this  way  and  that  as  if 
they  were  struggling  to  escape  from  sorrow,  a 
conviction  came  over  her  that  sickness  often  was 
the  fault  of  the  person  who  suffered  from  it. 
She  knew  that  an  atmosphere  of  gloom  hung 
over  Sam's  house;  that  if  he  opened  up  the  win- 
dows Hannah  was  told  to  close  them;  if  he 
brought  in  flowers  they  had  to  be  thrown  out 
because  they  gave  his  mother  a  cold;  if  he  built 
a  fire  in  the  fireplace  for  cheerfulness,  it  was 
considered  unsafe,  owing  to  a  defect  in  the  chim- 
ney. The  stove  was  sufficient — and  indeed  more 
than  sufficient,  since  the  temperature  of  the  room 
was  at  least  eighty  the  winter  through.  Poor 
Sam!  Annie  Laurie  knew  that  he  had  suggested 
that  the  chimney  be  mended  so  that  they  might 
sometimes  sit  by  the  open  fire,  letting  the  raging 
stove  subside;  he  had  urged  Hannah  to  have 
an  operation  that  would  set  her  eyes  straight, 


THE  MYSTERY  131 

but  the  family  had  been  too  fearful  of  the  re- 
sults. So  they  sat  in  gloom  and  hideousness 
within  their  power  to  remedy.  At  least  that 
was  how  it  looked  to  Sam's  impatient,  energetic 
nature,  and  Annie  Laurie  took  the  same  view. 

Miss  Zillah  came  in  after  a  time,  with  arms 
and  words  of  comfort  for  her  girl. 

"Carin  called  up  about  seven  o'clock,"  she 
said,  after  a  time  when  Annie  Laurie  had  wept 
out  her  grief  on  her  good  aunt's  shoulder.  "She 
seemed  to  know  you  were  in  trouble,  though  I 
don't  understand  how  she  could  have  found  out." 

Annie  Laurie  told  her  of  the  signalling. 

"Well,  she  wanted  to  come  right  over  to  you, 
but  I  told  her  to  wait  until  to-morrow.  Was  I 
right?" 

Annie  Laurie  nodded. 

"Get  undressed  now,  poor  one,"  soothed  Aunt 
Zillah.  "See,  I'll  open  your  bed  and  warm  it 
for  you.  Put  on  this  flannel  nightgown,  that's 
a  dear.  And  I'll  bring  you  a  glass  of  milk — 
unless  you  want  something  heartier." 

It  was  wonderful,  being  petted  like  this.  She 
had  led  a  chilly  life,  had  Annie  Laurie.  She 
had  known  kindness,  but  not,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, warm  love.    Yet  now  Aunt  Zillah's  com- 


132  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

passion  and  affection  wrapped  her  about  like  a 
cloak.     How  did  the  old  song  run? 

"Come  under  my  plaidie,  the  night's  gaun  to 

fa'; 
Come  in  frae  the  cauld  blast,  the  drift  and  the 

snaw; 
Come  under  my  plaidie  and  sit  down  beside  me, 
There's  room  in't,  dear  lassie,  believe  me,  for 
twa." 

Yes,  she  would  get  in  under  Aunt  Zil- 
lah's  plaidie  and  she  would  let  the  dear  old  lady 
know  that  she  was  grateful  to  her  for  having 
asked  her.  So,  when  she  had  drunk  the  warm 
fresh  milk  and  been  tucked  in  her  bed,  she  put 
her  arms  around  Aunt  Zillah's  wrinkled  neck 
and  gave  her  a  long,  long  hug. 

"We'll  never,  never  go  back  on  each  other, 
will  we?"  she  whispered  tremulously. 

"Never,  lass,  never,"  responded  the  old  lady, 
the  tears  dripping  from  her  eyes  on  Annie 
Laurie's  upturned  face.  So,  sweetened  by  a  sor- 
row, which  was  after  all  but  a  natural  and  right 
sorrow  such  as  must  come  to  all,  Annie  Laurie 
sank  into  the  dead  sleep  of  grief. 

The  next  few  days  were  blurred  and  strange. 
Friends  came  to  the  house.    Flowers  arrived  in 


THE  MYSTERY  133 

boxes.  There  were  many  telephone  messages. 
The  aunts  were  called  up  from  the  telegraph 
office.  There  was  business  to  do  at  the  cemetery ; 
arrangements  to  make  at  the  church.  Through 
it  all,  Annie  Laurie  strove  to  do  her  part.  There 
would  be  time  enough  for  grieving  afterward, 
she  decided.  The  thing  now  was  not  to  let  too 
heavy  a  burden  fall  on  her  aunts,  who  were,  as 
Annie  Laurie  seemed  to  discover  for  the  first 
time,  really  getting  to  be  old  ladies. 

But  at  last  it  all  was  over.  The  house  was 
quiet  and  peaceful.  And  the  help  on  the  farm 
came  to  Miss  Adnah  for  instructions. 

It  must  have  been  three  days  after  the  funeral 
that  Mr.  Carson  called  one  afternoon  and  asked 
to  see  Annie  Laurie  and  her  aunts.  It  was  like 
him,  in  his  thoughtfullness  to  include  her,  Annie 
Laurie  thought.  She  did  not  know  that  Charles 
Carson,  who  liked  almost  everybody  and  who 
had  the  best  will  in  the  world  toward  all  man- 
kind, nevertheless,  knowing  as  much  of  human 
nature  as  he  did,  thought  it  best  to  take  her  at 
once  into  council  concerning  matters  that  would 
affect  her  future  life. 

He  was  received  in  the  stifif  little  parlor,  the 
two  sisters  sitting  opposite  him  in  prim  dignity, 


134  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

and  Annie  Laurie  instinctively  putting  her  chair 
near  his. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  pardon  me  for  speaking 
to  you  concerning  your  affairs,"  he  said  in  his 
hearty  way.  "I  would  not  venture  to  do  so  un- 
invited, were  it  not  a  matter  that  in  a  way  con- 
cerns me  also." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Miss  Adnah  and  Miss  Zillah 
in  unison.  Annie  Laurie  fixed  her  reddish- 
brown  eyes  upon  him  with  devotion,  and  said 
nothing. 

"The  day  before  Mr.  Pace  died,"  he  went  on, 
"I  paid  him  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  cash," 

Annie  Laurie  stared;  the  sisters  started. 

"It  seemed  to  me  foolish  enough  to  pass  such 
a  sum  of  money  over  in  simple  currency,  but  as 
you  probably  know,  your  brother" — he  was  now 
addressing  himself  to  the  elder  ladies — "had  a 
prejudice  against  banks.  I  wished  to  give  him 
my  check.  He  said  he  had  no  use  for  checks. 
He  wanted  money.  It  was  a  curious  idiosyn- 
crasy of  his,  but  since  he  wished  it  that  way  I 
humored  him.  He  put  the  roll  of  bills  into  his 
pocket — I  paid  the  money  to  him  at  Mr.  Heller's 
bank — and  drove  away  with  it.  That  was  Sat- 
urday afternoon.     He  died  Sunday.     I  have 


THE  MYSTERY  135 

come  to  inquire — with  only  neighborly  motives, 
I  beg  you  to  believe — whether  or  not  you  have 
seen  anything  of  that  roll  of  bills." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.     Then: 

"I  have  seen  nothing  of  it,  sir,"  said  Miss 
Adnah. 

"Nor  I,  sir,"  added  Miss  Zillah. 

''Oh,  and  there  must  have  been  more  money," 
broke  in  Annie  Laurie,  "much,  much  more!  I 
know  papa  always  had  a  lot,  Mr.  Carson,  but  I 
haven't  an  idea  where  he  kept  it.  None  of  us 
had.  If  we  ever  asked  him  for  money  he  would 
go  away  for  a  time  and  presently  come  back  with 
the  bills  he  meant  to  give  us.  He  had  some 
place  where  he  hid  it,  and  I  used  to  think  he 
ought  to  tell  some  one  of  us  where  it  was." 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Carson 
rather  heatedly.  "Then  you  haven't  any  of  you 
a  notion  where  he  kept  his  funds?" 

"Not  an  earthly  ideal"  cried  Annie  Laurie. 

"We  haven't  the  faintest  notion,  sir,"  said  Miss 
Adnah.  "I  will  confess  now  that  sister  and  I 
got  up  in  the  night — last  night  it  was — and 
looked  everywhere  in  his  room.  We  even  lifted 
the  edges  of  the  carpet  and  took  the  back  ofif  the 
steel  engravings.    We  looked,  of  course,  in  the 


136  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

bureau,  and  the  chest  and  the  closet.  We  found 
nothing.  It  was  our  intention  to  begin  to-night 
searching  in  the  other  rooms  of  the  house." 

"But  why  in  the  night,  ladies?" 

Miss  Adnah  looked  rather  offended,  as  if  Mr. 
Carson  had  gone  a  little  too  far  in  asking  such 
questions.    But  Miss  Zillah  broke  out  with: 

"Oh,  you  see,  sir,  it  seemed  so  silly  and  ab- 
surd for  us  to  have  to  do  a  thing  like  that.  My 
opinion  is  that  brother  Simeon  should  have  kept 
up  with  the  times  and  used  a  bank  like  other 
men.  I  hate  to  have  the  neighbors  know  what 
trouble  and  embarrassment  he  has  put  us  to." 

Miss  Adnah  looked  at  her  sister  in  amaze- 
ment. She,  who  was  so  gentle  of  judgment 
and  of  speech,  was  actually  criticising  a  Pace — 
and  her  own  dead  brother  at  that!  But  Mr. 
Carson  turned  a  look  of  appreciation  on  the 
flushed  little  face  of  the  old  lady. 

"The  Paces  are  not  all  cranks,  anyway,"  was 
his  thought.  "This  Miss  Zillah  seems  a  very 
sensible  sort  of  a  woman — quite  fit  to  be  related 
to  Annie  Laurie." 

The  reflection  would  have  surprised  Miss 
Adnah  very  much  had  she  known  of  it,  for  she 
regarded  herself  as  a  person  of  singular  good 


THE  MYSTERY  137 

sense.  Indeed,  she  secretly  thought  that  she 
had,  so  far  as  the  Paces  were  concerned,  rather 
a  monopoly  of  it.  Zillah  she  regarded  as  some- 
thing of  a  dreamer,  too  sentimental,  or  "soft," 
as  she  put  it,  by  half;  and  she  felt  very  disap- 
proving when  she  heard  her  pass  uncompliment- 
ary judgment  upon  one  of  the  family.  That  was 
a  privilege  which  Miss  Adnah  reserved  for  her- 
self. 

"You  see,  sir,"  Miss  Zillah  went  on,  blurting 
out  a  family  secret  which  Miss  Adnah  would 
have  starved  rather  than  let  anyone  know,  "we 
haven't  a  cent  in  the  world.  The  small  amount 
which  my  sister  and  I  had  in  our  purses  has 
been  used  up  during  the  last  few  days.  We  owe 
for  all  the  expenses  of  our  brother's  funeral. 
Really,  I  may  say  that  we  don't  know  which 
way  to  turn." 

"My  dear  Miss  Zillah,"  responded  Mr.  Car- 
son, "I  will  place  a  sum  of  money  at  your  dis- 
posal immediately." 

Why,  Miss  Adnah  wondered,  did  he  turn  to 
Zillah  instead  of  to  her?  It  seemed  to  her  that 
it  ought  to  be  evident  to  anyone  that  she  was 
now  the  head  of  the  house. 

"Moreover,"  Mr.  Carson  went  on,  "I  will  de- 


138  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

posit  the  sum  in  the  bank  and  send  you  the  bank 
book.  I  know  this  will  be  more  in  accord  with 
your  ideas." 

There  was  a  little  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he 
said  this,  but  Miss  Zillah  did  not  catch  it.  She 
was  really  much  flattered  that  he  should  think 
her  a  person  capable  of  conducting  things  in  a 
businesslike  way,  and  she  would  not  have  shown 
by  the  flutter  of  an  eyelash  how  frightened  she 
really  was  at  the  suggestion. 

"Then,"  continued  Mr.  Carson,  "our  next 
business  will  be  to  find  that  money.  I  propose 
that  you  call  in  one  or  two  trusty  neighbors,  not 
given  to  gossiping,  and  that  they  assist  you  in 
looking  over  the  premises.  The  money  must 
be  here  somewhere.  It  merely  devolves  on  us 
to  find  it." 

Miss  Adnah  made  a  gesture  of  distress. 

"I  don't  believe,  sir,"  she  said,  "that  you  can 
have  any  notion  of  how  intensely  distressing  it 
is  to  us  to  do  such  a  thing.  And  I  may  say  that 
we  have  no  neighbors  who  wouldn't  gossip.  If 
you  have  any  such,  please  show  them  to  me." 

Annie  Laurie,  who  knew  her  Aunt  Adnah's 
tempestuous  nature,  saw  that  a  storm  was  ris- 
ing, and  she  cast  about  for  a  way  of  diverting  it. 


THE  MYSTERY  139 

''Aunt  Adnah,"  she  broke  in,  "let  Azalea 
and  Carin  help  us  hunt.  You  know  if  it's  a 
secret  they'll  never,  never,  tell  it.  We've  pledged 
ourselves  to  keep  each  other's  secrets,  you  see. 
And  no  one  can  look  as  hard  as  we  girls  can. 
We're  like  ferrets." 

"An  excellent  idea,  Miss  Pace,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
son, nodding  at  Aunt  Adnah.  "Let  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Triple  Alliance  have  a  hand  at  it. 
It  will  seem  natural  enough  for  Annie  Laurie's 
friends  to  be  here  with  her  in  her  trouble;  the 
girls  will  tell  nothing;  and  their  keen  young 
wits  are  the  best  ones  imaginable  to  set  at  this 
task." 

Upon  consultation  it  struck  the  sisters  that  this 
would  be  the  case.  Bad  as  it  would  be  to  have 
three  "young-ones"  ranging  over  their  orderly 
house,  tearing  up  this  and  that,  they  would  at 
least  take  the  thing  only  as  a  sort  of  game.  They 
wouldn't  be  ill-natured  and  sneering  about  it 
as  their  elders  might  be. 

So  it  was  agreed  that  they  would  accept  Mr. 
Carson's  offer  of  a  generous  loan  of  money,  and 
that  on  Saturday  the  three  girls  were  to  start  in 
under  the  direction  of  the  Misses  Pace,  and 
make  a  search  of  both  house  and  yard. 


I40  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Their  eyes  certainly  are  sharper  than  ours, 
Adnah,"  Miss  Zillah  said. 

"Yes,"  snapped  Miss  Adnah,  worn  and  weary 
with  the  difficulties  of  life,  "they're  sharp 
enough.  Oh,  Zillah,  Zillah,  why  should  we 
Paces  be  humiliated  like  this?" 

"No  humiliation  about  it,  sister,"  Miss  Zillah 
replied.  "Take  things  a  little  easier,  Adnah;  let 
some  one  help  us  out.  We're  very  much  shaken 
— very  much  shaken,  indeed.  We're  getting  old, 
and  we've  had  a  great  sorrow.  If  folks  want  to 
help,  why  let  'em." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  they  were  shaken. 
The  excitement  and  courage  that  had  borne 
them  up  at  first,  failed  them  as  the  week  went  on. 
Miss  Adnah,  who  had  felt  herself  so  able  to  at- 
tend to  the  business  of  the  farm,  not  only  found 
it  beyond  her  power  to  give  an  order,  but  she 
found  it  impossible  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  book- 
keeping, which  was  a  necessary  part  of  the  busi- 
ness. Annie  Laurie  had  been  obliged  to  consult 
with  the  help  after  her  school  hours,  and  to 
straighten  out  the  accounts  as  best  she  could  dur- 
ing the  evening.  They  felt  the  need  of  a  strong, 
quiet  man  of  afifairs — a  good,  reliable  overseer 
— but  the  men  who  were  helping  them  were  not 


THE  MYSTERY  141 

of  that  sort,  and  they  knew  of  no  one  in  the  coun- 
try who  seemed  to  meet  their  need. 

Saturday  morning  by  nine  o'clock,  according 
to  Annie  Laurie's  invitation,  Azalea  and  Carin 
arrived  on  their  ponies.  These  being  given  to 
the  stable  men,  the  two  girls,  in  no  little  awe  at 
entering  a  house  of  sorrow,  came  in  to  pay  their 
respects  to  Miss  Zillah  and  her  sister.  The  two 
sat  shivering  before  the  fire,  tearful  and  nervous, 
and  even  Miss  Adnah  was  now  willing  to  give 
over  the  search  for  their  lost  fortune  into  the 
hands  of  these  respectful  and  sympathetic  girls. 

"At  first,  my  dear  girls,"  said  Aunt  Zillah 
brokenly,  "it  seemed  as  if  we  couldn't  let  anyone 
in  to  help  us  and  it's  hard  enough  now,  but  we'd 
rather  it  would  be  you  than  anyone." 

"Oh,  Miss  Zillah,"  cried  Azalea  in  her  im- 
pulsive way,  "we  understand  just  how  you  feel. 
But  Annie  Laurie's  fortune  just  must  be  found, 
mustn't  it?  Why,  it's  a  quest,  you  know.  A 
sacred  quest — like  you  read  about." 

That  glow  which  was  Azalea's  greatest 
charm,  lit  up  her  dark  face  and  Miss  Zillah  felt 
that  here  was  a  girl  who  was  one  of  them.  She 
need  fear  nothing  from  her.  As  for  that  sweet- 
faced  Carson  girl,  with  her  golden  hair  and  her 


142  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

lovely  voice,  how  could  anyone  do  anything  but 
trust  her?  Yes,  it  was  all  as  it  should  be.  They 
were  old  women  and  must  give  their  cares  into 
the  hands  of  others. 

So  the  three  girls  began  their  never-to-be-for- 
gotten search  for  Annie  Laurie's  lost  fortune. 

Although  the  aunts  had  gone  over  the  dead 
man's  room,  they  thought  best  to  begin  there. 
So  thorough  was  their  search  that  they  even 
ripped  open  the  lining  of  his  coats;  they  looked 
in  his  shoes;  they  investigated  his  hat  linings. 
Nothing  was  found. 

Then  they  searched  the  hallways,  the  pantries 
and  cupboards.  They  looked  throughout  the 
parlor,  through  the  living  room,  through  the 
kitchen.  They  had  one  of  the  men  in  to  pull  up 
the  window  sills.  They  took  the  bricks  from 
the  hearth.  Nightfall  found  them  wearily 
searching  the  dusty  debris  in  the  old  attic. 

Sunday  was  a  day  of  rest  for  all  of  these  peo- 
ple, but  it  was  very,  very  hard  for  them  to  sit  in 
idleness  while  their  imaginations  were  rioting 
through  the  Pace  property,  searching  out  every 
corner  and  cubbyhole  for  the  lost  money.  Nat- 
urally enough,  Monday  found  the  girls  in  no 
condition  to  settle  down  to  their  studies,  and  as 


THE  MYSTERY  143 

Mrs.  Carson  said,  it  was  so  much  more  impor- 
tant that  the  money  should  be  found  than  that 
they  should  learn  a  lesson  or  two,  that  they  were 
excused  from  school  and  permitted  to  resume 
their  search. 

The  yard  was  their  point  of  attack  this  morn- 
ing. They  looked  over  every  inch  of  it,  but 
nowhere  did  they  see  anything  save  the  hard, 
frozen  surface.  No  hollow  tree  offered  a  place 
for  hiding.  The  solid  substructure  of  the  house 
forbade  them  to  hope  for  anything  there.  Next 
they  went  to  the  barns,  the  stables  and  out- 
houses, but  here  the  prospect  was  discouraging 
indeed. 

"Besides,"  said  Annie  Laurie,  "when  papa 
wanted  to  get  money  for  any  purpose  he  always 
went  to  his  own  room  and  locked  the  door.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  must  have  kept  it  with  him." 

"But  how  can  that  be,"  argued  Carin,  drop- 
ping white  and  worn  into  her  chair — they  were 
in  Annie  Laurie's  room, — "when  nothing  has 
been  found  anywhere  about  his  clothes?  Why, 
the  only  pocketbook  he  appeared  to  have  was 
that  little  one  for  silver.  Didn't  you  ever  see 
him  with  a  large  leather  pocketbook,  Annie?" 

"Never,"  said  Annie  Laurie.     "Never." 


144  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"But  now,  when  papa  paid  him  that  twenty 
thousand  dollars,"  Carin  insisted.  "Do  you  sup- 
pose he  brought  that  home  in  his  hand  the  way 
a  child  would  a  penny,  or  rolled  it  up  in  his 
pocket  where  it  could  fall  out  any  minute?  It 
doesn't  seem  reasonable;  honestly  it  doesn't." 

And  then,  suddenly.  Azalea  had  a  vision.  She 
saw  a  man  come  into  a  dark  room — a  room 
lighted  only  by  a  flickering  fire.  She  saw  him 
lay  aside  his  coat,  unscrew  his  tin  arm,  take 
something  from  the  mantel  shelf,  place  it  within, 
then  replace  the  arm  and  the  coat.  She  remem- 
bered how  he  had  asked  her  if  she  ever  dreamed, 
and  how  she  had  said  she  never  told  her  dreams, 
and  he  had  said  that  was  right.  And  she  had 
remembered  the  look  that  had  gone  from  him 
to  her  and  back  again — a  look  which  was  a  prom- 
ise on  her  part  not  to  tell  what  she  had  seen  and 
a  message  from  him  of  confidence  in  her.  She 
sat  rigid,  going  over  the  scene  again  before  she 
spoke.  When  she  did  the  girls  hardly  recog- 
nized her  voice. 

"I  know!"  she  said — not  very  loud. 

"You  know?"    The  others  cried  it  together. 

"He  kept  his  money  in  his  tin  arm." 

"No!" 


THE  MYSTERY  145 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

*T  saw  him  put  some  there  once." 

"When?" 

"Where?" 

"The  night  Annie  Laurie  and  I  fell  asleep  on 
the  sofa." 

"Tell  me  more,  'Zalie." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will.  I'll  tell  you  everything. 
Oh,  Annie  Laurie,  was  the  tin  arm  buried  with 
him?" 

"No — no,  I'm  sure  it  wasn't.  It  was  hanging 
on  a  nail  in  his  bedroom  the  day  after  he  was 
buried,  but  the  aunts  couldn't  bear  to  see  it  there 
and  they  carried  it  to  the  attic." 

"Then  the  money  couldn't  have  been  in  it  after 
all." 

"Oh,  it  might  still  be  there.    Let's  go  see." 

Up  to  the  attic  they  went,  trembling  with 
eagerness.  There,  sure  enough,  from  a  beam 
hung  the  tin  arm.  Annie  Laurie  could  not  quite 
bring  herself  to  touch  it.  It  seemed  almost  like 
a  part  of  her  father.  But  Azalea  took  it  down, 
convinced  that  she  was  right.  She  looked  into 
it;  carried  it  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked 


146  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

again.    She  ran  her  fingers  into  the  hand  of  it. 

She  turned  her  disappointed  face  toward  her 
friends.    There  was  nothing  there. 

"All  the  same,"  she  said  with  earnestness,  "it 
was  there." 

"But  then  some  one  has  taken  it  out." 

"That's  it,"  said  Carin.  "Some  one  has  taken 
it  out." 

"Not  the  aunts!"  cried  Annie  Laurie,  fiercely. 

"Oh,  mercy  no,"  agreed  Azalea,  "not  the 
aunts." 

"But  who  else  handled  the  arm?"  asked 
Carin. 

Annie  Laurie  stood  thinking.  Then  a  deep 
flush  spread  over  her  face. 

"I — I  don't — who  else  could  have?"  she  stam- 
mered. She  couldn't  bear  to  place  anyone  under 
suspicion. 

But  Azalea  was  more  impulsive. 

"Why  Mr.  Disbrow,  the  undertaker,  of 
course,"  she  said.  "He  must  have  taken  it  ofif. 
He  must  have — "  she  stopped  and  the  three 
stared  at  each  other. 

And  then  Annie  Laurie  remembered  how  he 
had  crowded  by  her  in  the  hall,  not  speaking, 
and  looking  the  other  way. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  DISBROWS 

The  three  girls  made  up  their  minds  to  tell 
no  one  of  their  suspicions  concerning  the  dis- 
appearance of  Simeon  Pace's  money.  But  Aza- 
lea could  not  but  talk  it  over  with  Pa  McBirney, 
and  Thomas  McBirney  could  not  resist  cogitat- 
ing about  the  matter  with  Haystack  Thompson, 
and  he,  in  turn,  was  impelled  to  go  with  it  to 
his  trusted  pastor,  Absalom  Summers.  And 
Absalom  whispered  it  to  his  Barbara,  and  Bar- 
bara— but  perhaps  she  told  no  one.  In  look- 
ing the  matter  over  afterward,  she  was  almost 
sure  that  she  had  told  no  one.  At  least  she 
hadn't  told  of  it  right  out.  And  Carin  spoke 
of  it  only  to  her  father;  and  he  mentioned  it 
merely  to  the  banker  Heller,  and  he  only  spoke 
of  it  to  his  fellow  officers  in  the  bank,  and  they 
told  no  one  but  their  intimate  friends. 

As  for  Annie  Laurie,  she  refrained  with  a 
mighty  effort  from  confiding  her  suspicions  to 
her  aunts,  and  she  warned  her  friends  not  to  tell 

147 


148  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

them.  Had  they  mulled  that  matter  over  and 
over  during  the  long,  lonely  winter  evenings, 
the  poor  girl  would  have  felt  as  if  she  were  losing 
her  reason  as  well  as  her  fortune.  Indeed,  the 
winter  had  settled  down  heavily  over  the  Pace 
household.  The  dairy  met  with  reverses.  Two 
of  the  best  cows  died.  The  accounts  would 
not  balance.  And  worst  of  all,  the  helpers 
were  hard  to  manage  and  would  not  take  orders 
willingly  from  Miss  Adnah.  The  strong  will 
and  hand  of  Simeon  Pace  were  sorely  missed. 
And  along  with  all  this  distress  was  the  sense 
that  Annie  Laurie  and  her  aunts  had  of  burn- 
ing injustice.  Somewhere  in  the  world  was 
money  in  abundance,  belonging  to  them.  Just 
how  much  it  was  they  could  not  even  guess.  Of 
Mr.  Carson's  purchase  money  of  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  they  felt  sure.  He  had  Simeon 
Pace's  receipt  to  show  for  that.  But  there  was 
other  money  beyond  question — the  savings  of 
years.  The  old  aunts,  waking  in  the  night,  would 
arise  and  fumble  in  the  places  in  which  they  had 
looked  so  often;  and  Annie  Laurie,  strong  and 
sensible  as  she  was,  found  that  it  required  all 
of  her  will  to  keep  from  following  their  ex- 
ample. 


THE  DISBROWS  149 

This  girl,  so  straightforward,  so  energetic  and 
hopeful  by  nature,  found  it  almost  intolerable  to 
sit  around,  patient  under  injustice.  She  pro- 
posed to  Mr.  Carson  that  he  should  go  to  Hector 
Disbrow  and  accuse  him  of  the  theft  of  the 
money — tell  him  the  whole  thing  was  known, 
and  that  he  must  refund  it  or  be  arrested.  But 
Mr.  Carson  shook  his  head. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "the 
thing  isn't  known  at  all.  It  is  only  surmised. 
Azalea,  in  semi-darkness,  thought  she  saw  your 
father  put  something  in  his  arm.  She  may  have 
been  mistaken.  Or  even  if  she  were  not  mistaken 
about  his  doing  so  on  that  particular  occasion,  it 
doesn't  in  the  least  follow  that  your  father  car- 
ried the  money  in  question  there.  Above  all,  it 
does  not  follow  that  it  was  in  the  arm  the  day  of 
his  death;  or  that,  even  if  it  was  there,  that  the 
undertaker  stole  it.  The  tin  arm  must  have 
hung  in  the  room  for  days.  Many  persons  visited 
that  room.    Any  one  of  them  might  be  guilty." 

"Then  is  there  nothing  at  all  that  can  be  done, 
sir?" 

"Nothing  at  present.  I  am  watching  Disbrow 
— indeed,  I  may  say  the  whole  community  has 


I50  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

him  under  suspicion.  If  he  is  guilty  be  sure 
that  sooner  or  later  it  will  come  out." 

"But  here  we  are,  getting  deeper  and  deeper 
in  debt  to  you!" 

*'Annie  Laurie,  I  am  convinced  that  every 
cent  I  have  advanced  you  will  be  paid  back  to 
me  in  time.  You  are  a  brave  girl.  I  trust  you 
completely.  I  feel  that  you  are  going  to  make  a 
success  of  life.  Meantime,  you  are  living  on 
borrowed  capital.  B/ut  so  are  thousands  of 
others.  Back  of  it  all,  you  must  remember,  is 
the  fine  farm  as  security.  It  is  a  perfectly  clear 
business  proposition.     Have  no  fears,  child." 

She  strengthened  under  the  tone  he  used  in 
speaking  to  her.  If  he  had  pitied  her,  she  would 
have  broken  down,  but  he  merely  put  it  to  her 
that  she  was  playing  her  part  in  the  world,  and 
she  braced  herself  to  play  that  part  well  and  not 
disappoint  him  or  any  of  her  other  friends. 

She  tried  to  avoid  Sam  Disbrow,  yet  it  seemed 
to  be  her  luck  to  meet  him  oftener  than  usual. 
He  was  very  sorry  for  her,  she  could  see,  and 
he  assumed  his  brightest  and  heartiest  manner 
when  he  was  with  her,  in  his  efforts  to  help  her 
to  be  happy. 

One  day  when  there  was  a  feeling  of  spring 


THE  DISBROWS  151 

in  the  air,  and  she  had  gone  along  one  of  the  little 
winding  paths  through  the  pine  wood,  she  met 
him  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  his  dogs  at 
his  heels. 

"Why,  Annie  Laurie,"  he  cried,  "are  you  out 
hunting  too?" 

The  deep  suspicion  and  anger  she  felt  toward 
his  father  put  some  irritation  into  her  tone  as 
she  said: 

"And  why  are  you  hunting,  Sam?  I  thought 
you  were  w^orking  in  the  box  factory  office." 

"Well,  so  I  was.  You  see,  I  had  finished 
school  here  and  dad  couldn't  afford  to  send  me 
away.  I  might  have  gone  anyway,  and  somehow 
worked  my  way  through  Rutherford  Academy, 
but  Hannah  said  I  oughtn't  to  leave  mother.  So 
I  stayed — though  it  didn't  seem  to  me  quite  the 
best  thing  to  do.  But  now,  suddenly,  dad  says 
I'm  to  go  away  to  school.  At  first  I  refused.  I 
was  afraid  it  would  mean  pinching  and  scrimp- 
ing for  all  the  rest  of  them  at  home.  But  dad 
said,  no,  things  were  a  little  easier  with  him  now, 
and  I'd  better  take  the  chance  while  I  had  it." 

Annie  Laurie  stood  before  him  in  the  path 
staring,  while  Sam  waited  in  vain  for  her  con- 
gratulations. 


1^2  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"So,  yesterday,"  he  went  on  in  a  somewhat 
dashed  tone,  "a  fellow  came  to  the  factory  look- 
ing for  work.  He  said  he  needed  it  very  badly 
— had  his  mother  to  look  after.  So  I  spoke  up 
and  said  I  was  leaving  to  go  into  the  Rutherford 
Academy  at  the  spring  term,  and  that  I'd  get 
out  and  let  him  have  my  place.  You  see,  there 
were  a  number  of  things  I  wanted  to  do  around 
home  before  I  went  away.  And  I  was  just  crazy 
to  get  off  in  the  hills  for  a  day  or  two.  That's 
the  way  with  us  down  here,  isn't  it,  Annie 
Laurie?  We  can  keep  under  roof  only  about  so 
long.  Then  we  have  to  go  roving  for  a  spell." 

Annie  Laurie  hardly  heard  what  he  said.  She 
could  with  difficulty  keep  from  breaking  out 
with: 

"But  where  is  the  money  coming  from  that  is 
to  send  you  away  to  the  academy?  Didn't  you 
ask  your  father  how  he  came  by  this  money  so 
suddenly?  Have  5^ou  no  notion  of  what  he  has 
done  to  earn  this  money?  Can  you  be  living 
a  lie — just  as  he  is?" 

There  swept  back  to  her  memory  the  words 
the  minister  had  said  that  day  in  church  when 
she  had  caught  Sam's  eye,  and  had  known  what 
he  was  thinking. 


THE  DISBROWS  153 

"Plant  a  lie  in  the  garden  of  your  soul,"  he 
had  said,  "and  it  will  flourish  worse  than  any- 
poisonous  weed.  Do  not  think  you  can  uproot 
it  when  you  will,  for  it  will  grow  and  grow  till 
it  is  stronger  than  you,  and  not  all  your  prayers 
and  tears  can  rend  its  terrible  roots  out  of  your 
life." 

Sam  had  wondered,  as  she  had,  why  the 
preacher  should  have  talked  like  that  to  a  con- 
gregation of  good  people.  For  they  had  all 
seemed  good  to  her;  but  now  she  realized  that 
if  the  Disbrows  were  living  a  lie  perhaps  other 
persons  whom  she  knew  and  liked  were  doing 
so,  too.  For  the  first  time  in  Annie  Laurie's 
life  a  tidal  wave  of  suspicion,  distrust  and  hatred 
of  the  world  swept  over  her,  and  it  seemed  like 
a  wicked  place — a  place  made  up  of  beings  who 
tried  to  injure  each  other. 

She  felt  so  ill  that  she  leaned  against  a  tree. 

Sam  seemed  to  take  no  notice,  however.  He 
was  watching  his  dogs,  and  talking  on  and  on 
in  his  cheerful  way. 

"And  another  fine  thing  is  going  to  happen," 
he  said.  "Dad  has  got  up  spunk  enough  at  last 
to  send  Hannah  up  to  Williamsburg  to  have  her 
eyes  operated  upon,  and  sis  has  found  the  courage 


1^4  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

to  go.  Do  you  know,  I  believe  that  after  she 
gets  those  poor  eyes  of  hers  straightened  she 
won't  be  so  shy  and  queer  as  she  is  now.  I  sup- 
pose she  loathes  going  out  where  she'll  meet 
people,  when  she  has  to  look  all  over  the  premises 
whenever  she  tries  to  fix  her  eyes  on  the  person 
she's  talking  to.  Then,  if  dad  could  only  get 
some  one  in  to  take  care  of  poor  mother,  Hannah 
could  go  away  to  school  too,  perhaps,  and  grow 
to  be  a  little  more  like  other  folks." 

Annie  Laurie  knew  that  Sam  would  not  have 
talked  about  his  own  people  in  this  free  way  to 
anyone  but  her.  The  two  had  spoken  out  their 
minds  to  each  other  for  years,  and  it  had  come 
to  be  second  nature  for  them  to  do  it. 

And  now  here  they  were  with  a  black  secret 
between  them.  She,  Annie  Laurie,  who  had 
meant  always  to  be  Sam's  true  friend,  was  sus- 
picious of  him!  Yet  she  could  not  look  at  him, 
standing  there  smiling  in  the  spring  sunlight, 
his  eyes  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  think  him  guilty 
of  any  knowledge  of  wrong-doing  on  the  part  of 
his  father. 

How  very,  very  strange  life  seemed  1  Once 
she  had  thought  it  like  a  road.  One  had  only 
to  walk  ahead,  doing  right  and  nodding  to  the 


THE  DISBROWS  155 

passers-by,  and  all  would  be  well.  Now  she  saw 
how  it  twisted,  turned,  and  split — this  road — 
and  how  difficult  it  was  to  tell  which  turning  to 
take,  or  which  by-path  to  seek. 

Then  an  impulse  came  over  her  almost  as 
strong  and  swift  as  one  of  those  which  were  for- 
ever besetting  Azalea. 

"Sam,"  she  said,  "I  haven't  been  in  your  house 
for  years.  Do  you  know,  I  would  like  to  go. 
I'd  like  to  go  now.    Do  you  think  I  might?" 

Sam  flushed  a  little  and  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Why,  yes,  Annie,  I  don't  know  why  you 
shouldn't.  Mother  doesn't  see  many  people,  as 
you  know;  and  they  won't  be  expecting  you,  but 
if  you'll  take  things  as  you  find  them — " 

"Oh,  yes,  Sam,"  she  aid  dryly.  "That's  just 
what  I  mean.  I  want  to  take  them  as  they  are. 
I  want  to  get  acquainted  with  your  family." 

He  looked  pleased  and  softened  at  that. 

"Do  you,  Annie  Laurie?"  he  said  with  a  little 
thrill  in  his  voice.  "Well,  that  sure  is  nice  of 
you.  Not  very  many  of  the  neighbors  seem  to 
care  whether  they  live  or  die.  Come  along, 
then.    Let's  go  now." 

So  they  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Disbrow 
house,  Annie  Laurie  leading  and  Sam  walking 


156  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

behind,  nervously  smiling,  the  dogs  at  his  heels. 

They  turned  in  at  the  Disbrow  place,  pass- 
ing through  the  sagging  gate,  and  Sam  uttered 
his  first  apology. 

"I've  tried  and  tried  to  get  that  old  gate  to 
Stay  up  on  the  level,"  he  said.  "But  seems  like 
we  never  have  the  proper  tools  to  do  anything 
w^ith ;  and  anyhow,  the  w^ood's  so  rotten  it  won't 
hold  a  nail,  hardly." 

"Oh,  a  sagging  gate  is  nothing,"  answered 
Annie  Laurie  dully. 

The  little  garden  had  not  yet  felt  the  influence 
of  spring,  and  it  looked  dejected  enough.  Frag- 
ments of  last  year's  mosquito  netting  dangled  at 
the  windows;  the  paint  of  the  little  house  was 
weather-worn;  the  arms  were  off  the  bench  on 
the  porch.  Green  shades  kept  the  light  from 
making  its  way  into  the  low  rooms.  Indeed,  so 
dim  was  the  room  into  which  Annie  Laurie 
stepped  that  at  first  she  could  see  nothing.  The 
heat  was  fairly  sweltering,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  lifeless  and  stale-smelling. 

"Mother,"  said  Sam  gently,  "IVe  brought  a 
friend  to  see  you — Annie  Laurie  Pace." 

"Oh,"  sighed  a  voice  from  the  gloom,  strug- 
gling   between    reproachfulness    and    natural 


THE  DISBROWS  157 

politeness,  "have  you?  How  do  you  do,  Annie 
Laurie?" 

"I'm  very  well,  thank,  you  ma'am.  Are  you 
feeling  any  better?" 

"No — no,  I  don't  seem  to  get  any  better.  Sam, 
you'll  have  to  pull  up  a  shade.  Annie  Laurie 
won't  be  able  to  see  a  thing." 

Annie  Laurie  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant. 
She  dreaded  what  she  would  see,  and  yet  she 
had  long  wished  to  know  the  truth — to  know 
what  Sam's  strange  home  was  like.  She  heard 
the  shade  being  raised,  and  with  something  of 
an  effort  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  about. 
What  she  saw  gave  her  a  shock.  Her  own  home 
was  ugly  enough,  as  she  knew  well ;  but  poverty 
was  here,  and  worse  than  poverty — indifference 
to  appearances.  The  almost  bare  apartment 
wore  that  dejected  and  unhappy  aspect  of  a  room 
for  which  no  one  cares  and  in  which  no  one 
hopes.  It  was  a  sad  room — a  sick  room — with  a 
long  couch  and  its  occupant  for  the  chief  ob- 
jects. 

Yes,  the  couch  was  long  and  wide,  though  the 
woman  who  lay  on  it  was  so  small.  Figured 
brown  calico  covered  the  bed,  and  the  woman 
was  dressed  in  a  wrapper  of  faded  blue.    There 


158  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

was  no  collar  about  her  throat — only  the  coarse 
open  neck-band,  showing  a  shriveled  neck. 
Her  face  was  bloodless  and  bleached  like 
a  vegetable  that  has  grown  in  the  dark,  and  out 
of  it  looked  a  pair  of  weary  eyes,  beneath  which 
were  deep,  dark  circles.  Her  hair — brown, 
touched  with  gray — was  brushed  back  straight 
and  flat  from  her  bulging  brow,  and  this,  with 
her  high-arched  eyebrows,  gave  her  an  almost 
Chinese  look.  Her  hands,  thinner  and  more 
apathetic  than  any  hands  Annie  Laurie  ever  had 
seen,  lay  on  the  calico  cover. 

"It's  not  very  often  I  have  light  let  in  here," 
she  said.    "It  makes  my  head  ache  so." 

Annie  Laurie  did  not  say  that  she  ought  not  to 
have  let  it  in  for  her,  if  that  was  the  case.  She 
couldn't  really  feel  that  this  w^as  the  case.  She 
was  glad  the  light  was  in  the  room  for  once,  and 
by  it,  she  moved  toward  Mrs.  Disbrow's  bed, 
her  hand  outstretched  with  something  almost 
like  satisfaction,  for  she  knew  as  she  looked  in 
that  woman's  face,  that  if  her  fortune  had  been 
stolen  from  her  by  the  undertaker,  his  wife  did 
not  know  it.  She  was  as  convinced  of  this  woman's 
innocence  when  she  looked  at  her,  as  she  was  of 
her  pitiful  condition.     So  she  took  one  of  the 


THE  DISBROWS  159 

claw-like  hands  in  her  own  strong  grasp  and  sat 
down  beside  her.  Mrs.  Disbrow's  face  was 
quivering  with  the  excitement  of  meeting  a 
stranger. 

"Sam  often  talks  of  you,"  said  his  mother  in 
her  fluttering  voice.  "I've  been  wanting  to  see 
you.    You're  a  strong,  fine  girl,  Annie." 

"Yes,  I'm  strong  and  well,"  the  girl  answered. 
"I'm  very  thankful." 

"Well,  I  haven't  known  a  well  day  for  years," 
said  the  invalid.  "Here  I  lie,  racked  with  pain, 
and  I  declare  I  don't  know  whether  it's  one  day 
or  another." 

Annie  Laurie  felt  herself  bracing  against  this 
discouraged  tone. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  don't  suppose  you  really 
have  to  worry  about  what  day  it  is.  You  have 
nothing  to  do — no  Monday  washing  to  think  of, 
or  Saturday  baking.  Some  one  else  does  all  that 
for  you." 

She  spoke  merely  to  present  a  cheerful  side, 
but  Mrs.  Disbrow  flushed  a  trifle.  Annie  Laurie 
saw  that  she  had  said  something  that  annoyed 
her. 

"Yes,"  the  sick  woman  replied  still  more  de- 
jectedly, "I'm  nothing  but  a  drag  on  my  family. 


i6o  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

I  often  say  to  them  that  it  would  be  better  if  I 
was  out  of  their  way." 

"I  don't  suppose  that  makes  them  very  happy 
— hearing  you  say  that."  Annie  Laurie  replied 
in  her  hearty  way.  It  really  seemed  to  her  as 
if  that  was  the  unkindest  thing  a  mother  could 
say  to  her  children.  "If  only  I  could  have  my 
mother,  sick  or  well,  or  any  way  at  all,  I'd  be  the 
happiest  girl  in  the  world.  It's  terribly  lonely 
being  without  a  mother — or  a  father,"  she  added 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

Mrs.  Disbrow  reached  out  her  hand  and  laid 
it  on  Annie  Laurie's. 

"Poor  girl,"  she  murmured  with  what  was  al- 
most her  first  thought  of  anyone  save  herself, 
that  winter. 

"And — Oh,  I  feel  so  sorry  for  Sam  and  Han- 
nah, with  you  ill  always,"  went  on  Annie  Laurie. 
"Of  course  it  spoils  their  happiness.  It  seems 
such  a  pity!  Isn't  there  anything  that  can  be 
done,  Mrs.  Disbrow?  Doesn't  any  doctor  know 
how  to  cure  you?  Haven't  you  any  idea  your- 
self of  what  ought  to  be  done?" 

"Well,  my  husband  talks  of  going  West  soon,** 
answered  Mrs.  Disbrow  with  something  like 
vivacity — or  rather,  like  a  shadow  of  it.     "I'm 


THE  DISBROWS  i6i 

looking  forward  to  that.  If  we  could  get  to  a 
new  place  and  to  a  new  house,  and  if  there  was 
something  to  look  forward  to,  and  hope  for  the 
children  to  make  something  of  themselves,  I 
don't  know — maybe — "  her  voice  trailed  off  and 
her  eyes  fixed  themselves  in  an  aimless  reverie  on 
the  opposite  wall. 

So  they  were  going  West!  That  was  the  plan. 
The  man  who  had  been  unable  to  give  his  family 
a  chance,  who  had  been  broken  by  this  long  ill- 
ness of  his  wife's,  who  had  failed  to  make  his 
place  among  men,  was  going  West.  His  chance 
had  come  to  him  at  last.  Had  it  come  through 
theft?  Annie  Laurie  found  herself  wishing  that 
they  might  indeed  have  the  chance,  these  poor 
people  who  seemed  never  to  have  been  able  to 
step  out  into  the  sunshine.  Yet  had  they  a  right 
to  this  chance — if  it  meant  her  defeat?  Could 
she  let  them  go  this  way,  while  she  was  left  to 
struggle  with  poverty? 

The  door  opened  and  a  girl  entered.  Han- 
nah! She  was  so  slender  that  Annie  Laurie, 
who  was  broad  of  shoulder,  with  a  backbone  that 
might  have  been  made  of  steel,  wondered  how 
the  poor  thing  managed  to  keep  upright.  Her 
face  was  ivory-colored,  her  frock  an  ill-fitting 


i62  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

gingham  of  a  hideous  "watermelon"  pink.  She 
turned  her  dreadfully  crossed  eyes  on  Annie 
Laurie — or  to  be  correct,  turned  one  of  them  on 
her — and  looked  at  her  resentfully. 

"This  is  sister  Hannah,  Annie  Laurie,"  said 
Sam  in  rather  a  stifled  voice.  "You  two  girls 
ought  to  know  each  other,  you  know." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Hannah,  miserable 
with  shyness. 

"Oh,  I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you,  Hannah," 
Annie  Laurie  answered,  and  then  she  added: 
"But  I  can't  say  I'm  very  happy.  You  wouldn't 
expect  that.  I'm  very,  very  lonely  without  my 
father." 

She  had  risen  and  stood  before  the  girl,  with 
her  bald  little  statement  of  sorrow,  and  Hannah, 
forgetting  herself  and  her  fears  for  a  moment, 
looked  up  at  Annie  Laurie  with  sympathy  in 
her  face. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it's  too  bad.  I — I  cried  after 
I  heard  of  it." 

She  seemed  astonished  at  herself  for  saying 
so  much,  and  Sam  looked  at  her  with  amaze- 
ment. Had  Hannah  actually  cried  over  some 
one  else's  troubles? 


THE  DISBROWS  163 

"Did  you?"  exclaimed  Annie  Laurie.  "Oh, 
that  was  sweet  of  you,  Hannah." 

She  forgot  her  Aunt  Adnah's  axiom  that  the 
Paces  seldom  kissed,  and  leaned  forward  and 
planted  a  warm  kiss  on  Hannah's  cheek. 

"I  like  to  know  that,"  she  went  on.  "You  sec 
I  feel  so — so  friendless." 

"Why,  with  your  aunts  and  all?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Dish  row. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  be  protecting  my  aunts, 
you  see,"  explained  Annie.  "They  are  old  and 
terribly  broken  by  father's  death.  And  then, 
everything  has  gone  so  wrong  with  us.  We 
haven't  been  able  to  find  father's  money  any- 
where, you  know,  and  we're  really  poor.  We've 
no  money  to  run  the  dairy  on,  and  the  men  need 
overseeing,  and  I've  blundered  along  with  my 
bad  bookkeeping.  Altogether,  it  looks  as  if 
things  were  going  to  ruin,  and  I  just  can't  bear 
that,  Mrs.  Disbrow." 

"Why,  you've  always  been  so  prosperous!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Disbrow.  "My  husband  often 
has  spoken  of  how  prosperous  your  father 
was,  and  has  contrasted  him  with  himself. 
You  see,  Mr.  Disbrow  never  has  got  on  well 
here.    His  farm  has  paid  poorly,  and  of  course 


i64  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

the  undertaking  business  is  of  very  little  conse- 
quence in  a  community  like  this.  I  declare  I 
can't  blame  him  for  being  discouraged  and  bit- 
ter and  sort  of  half-hating  the  men  who  are  suc- 
cessful. It's  hard  to  like  people  when  every- 
thing is  going  against  you." 

Annie  Laurie  swept  her  glance  around  the 
room  again,  taking  in  the  brother  and  sister,  and 
resting  it  at  last  on  the  sick  woman. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  suppose 
it  is.  But  Mrs.  McBirney  says  you  have  to  give 
out  liking  to  have  people  like  you,  and  that  you 
have  to  think  you  are  going  to  succeed  in  order 
to  do  it." 

"And  you  have  to  think  well  in  order  to  be 
well,  I  suppose,"  said  the  invalid  angrily.  "I 
suppose  that's  her  idea.  Well,  you  can  tell  her 
for  me  that  she's  mistaken." 

Annie  Laurie  did  not  look  rebuked.  She  sat 
still,  thinking. 

"I  know  so  little  about  sickness,"  she  said 
slowly,  "that  I  can't  even  sympathize  the  way 
I  ought  to,  I  suppose.  Oh,  Mrs.  Disbrow,  don't 
you  suppose  you  could  go  riding  with  me?  I'm 
such  a  good  driver,  I  wouldn't  let  you  be  shaken 


THE  DISBROWS  165 

up  at  all.  Sam  and  Hannah  could  sit  beside 
you  to  keep  you  from  being  joggled." 

"A  pretty  sight  I'd  makel"  cried  Mrs.  Dis- 
brow.  "There's  too  many  of  the  neighbors 
would  be  peeking  out  to  see  what  I  looked  like, 
after  all  these  years  of  being  shut  away.  No, 
thank  you,  child,  I  don't  believe  I  want  to  try." 

"But  you  could  go  at  twilight.  We  could  go 
when  the  neighbors  are  at  supper.  Wouldn't 
it  be  fun,  Sam?   Could  you  sit  up,  ma'am?" 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  could.  And  even  if  I 
did,  like  as  not  I'd  pay  for  it  the  next  day." 

"But  why  not  try?  Maybe  you  wouldn't  have 
to  pay  for  it.  Oh,  ma'am,  it's  so  wonderful  to 
be  out  of  doors.  You  can't  think  what  you  miss 
staying  in  here — can  she,  Sam?" 

"No,"  said  Sam,  "she  can't  have  an  idea.  Oh, 
mother,  you  never  would  listen  to  me,  though 
truly  I  believe  you'd  be  ever  so  much  better  if 
you  would  get  out.  Please  try.  The  three  of  us 
will  be  able  to  take  good  care  of  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  the 
boy  flung  out  his  arms  with  sudden  passion. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  please  try!  Why  need 
we  all  be  so  unhappy?  Why  can't  we  have  a  lit- 
tle joy  like  other  people?" 


i66  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Annie  Laurie  felt  the  tears  leap  into  her  eyes. 
She  had  never  before  seen  Sam  as  other  than 
the  cheerful,  hearty  boy,  but  now  she  knew  that 
the  cheerfulness  and  heartiness  had  been  an  imi- 
tation of  the  real  thing.  They  had  been  but  his 
courage  masquerading  as  something  else. 

Mrs.  Disbrow  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and 
looked  at  her  son.  Suddenly  a  great  light  broke 
over  her.  She  had  not  been  the  only  sufferer 
in  that  house.  Before  her  were  the  two  whose 
youth  she  had  shadowed  with  her  pain. 

"I'll  go,"  she  said  in  a  strange  voice.  *'When 
shall  it  be?" 

"Now,"  cried  Annie  Laurie.  "I'll  run  right 
home  and  have  the  men  hitch  up.  Oh,  Hannah, 
be  sure  she's  dressed  warm  enough.  I'll  have 
something  warm  put  in  for  her  feet.  Oh,  Sam, 
maybe  she'll  like  it!" 

She  turned  toward  the  boy  with  outstretched 
hands  and  he  caught  and  held  them  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  was  off,  running  as  fast  as  she 
could  to  serve  the  people  into  whose  house  she 
had  gone  with  the  motives  of  a  spy. 


CHAPTER  X 

SAM 

Of  course  Annie  Laurie  told  Azalea  and 
Carin  all  about  it  as  the  three  sat  together  the 
next  day  after  luncheon,  in  the  schoolroom. 

"Papa  said  he'd  seen  you,"  Carin  answered. 
"He  was  horseback  riding  and  late  getting 
home,  and  he  said  he  saw  you  out  with  the  Dis- 
brows,  and  that  Mrs.  Disbrow  looked  like  a 
ghost  that  had  got  back  to  earth  and  didn't  like 
it  very  well.  But  he  thought  you  were  wonder- 
ful to  do  that.  He  didn't  quite  see  how  you  could, 
feeling  as  you  do,  but  he  thought  it  lovely  of 
you  just  the  same." 

"Well,"  said  Annie  Laurie.  "You  see  I  didn't 
feel  quite  the  way  I  thought  I  did  when  I  saw 
that  poor  woman  and  Hannah;  and  then  poor 
Sam  looked  at  me  as  if  he  thought  I  could  set 
his  world  right  if  I  only  would." 

"It's  a  terribly  twisted  world,"  mused  Azalea. 
"Now,  what  if  poor  little  Hannah  has  her  eyes 
straightened,  and  Sam  goes  to  college,  and  Mrs. 

167 


i68  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Disbrow  gets  her  health  out  West  all  out  of  the 
money  that  was  stolen  from  you,  Annie  Laurie? 
Those  are  all  good  things  to  have  happen." 

"Yes,  they  are,"  answered  Annie  Laurie  with- 
out anger.  "They  are  good  things.  But  you 
remember  what  Elder  Mills  said  that  last  night 
about  avoiding  lies  in  word  and  act.  I  remem- 
ber particularly  because  it  was  something  like 
what  the  preacher  had  been  saying  over  to  the 
Baptist  church  only  a  few  Sundays  before.  It 
seemed  to  me  they  were  all  harping  on  that  sub- 
ject, but  I  begin  to  see  why,  now.  I  can  see  that 
all  false  things  are  lies — that  stealing  is  a  sort 
of  lie — a  saying  that  something  is  yours  which 
isn't.  It  will  be  like  that  with  the  Disbrows, 
I  suppose;  no  matter  what  good  comes  to  them, 
it  won't  seem  good — at  least  not  to  Mr.  Disbrow, 
who  knows  the  truth  about  how  he  came  by  the 
money.  It's  dreadful,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  that  a  nice  boy  like  Sam  should  be  having 
things  out  of  that  money  he's  no  right  to." 

"You  oughtn't  to  speak  as  if  it  was  an  abso- 
lutely sure  thing  that  he  took  the  money,  Annie 
Laurie,"  warned  Carin.  "Papa  says  we  mustn't 
do  that.     He  says  it's  a  kind  of  crime  in  itself 


SAM  169 

to  accuse  people  of  sins  when  you're  not  sure 
they're  guilty." 

"I'll  try  not  to,"  sighed  Annie  Laurie  peni- 
tently, "but  it's  very  hard.  And,  oh,  Carin, 
it's  getting  to  be  so  sad  at  the  house  with  the 
old  aunts  always  talking  about  the  lost  money 
and  hunting  and  hunting  for  it,  and  the  business 
going  to  pieces  and  I  not  able  to  prevent  it." 

That  night  when  the  Carsons  sat  at  dinner, 
Carin  told  her  father  that  Annie  Laurie  had 
said  Mrs.  Disbrow  was  expecting  her  husband 
to  take  the  family  West. 

Mr.  Carson  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 

"Now,  that  can't  be,"  he  cried.  "I  won't  have 
that!  I  simply  won't.  No  matter  what  risk  I 
run  of  doing  the  man  an  injustice,  I  won't  have 
him  leave  this  community.  He's  under  suspi- 
cion and  he's  got  to  stay  here.  I'm  sorry  for 
him,  sometimes,  when  I  see  him  walk  into  town 
and  all  the  men  turn  their  backs  on  him  and 
walk  away.  Of  course,  it  isn't  really  fair — or 
at  least,  it  may  not  be  fair,  for  it  is  possible  that 
he  is  as  innocent  as  you  or  I.  But  if  he  is  guilty, 
he's  getting  only  a  small  part  of  what  he  de- 
serves. At  any  rate,  I  can  understand  that  he's 
very  uncomfortable  in  this  town  nowadays,  and 


170  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

that  he'd  like  mighty  well  to  get  out  of  it.  But 
he  shan't,  if  I  have  anything  to  say  about  it." 

The  next  morning,  however,  Annie  Laurie 
came  with  startling  news. 

"They're  gonel"  she  cried  as  she  dashed  into 
the  schoolroom. 

"Who?"  the  girls  asked  in  unison. 

"The  Disbrows." 

"No  I" 

"Yes,  they  have.  I  was  walking  along  the  road 
and  I  happened  to  look  over  toward  their  house, 
and  there  wasn't  any  smoke  coming  from  the 
chimney.  And  there  was  something  about  the 
place —  I  can't  describe  it,  because  the  curtains 
are  forever  down  anyway — but  something  that 
looked  deserted.  So  I  pelted  across  the  field  and 
knocked  at  the  door  and  no  one  answered.  And 
then  I  tried  the  door  and  it  was  locked.  I  saw 
the  chickens  were  gone,  too,  and  the  cow  and 
the  horses.    They  all  went  in  the  night." 

"But  do  you  think  Sam  would  let  his  family 
act  like  that?" 

"Sam  went  to  Rutherford  yesterday  to  the 
academy.  No,  I  don't  think  he  knew  a  thing 
about  it.  He  came  over  after  I  got  home  from 
school  to  say  good-bye,  and  he  was  very  happy 


SAM  171 

and — oh,  well — good,  you  know.  No  one  could 
have  looked  as  he  did  if  he  had  thought  his 
father  was  a  thief  and  his  family  sneaks." 

"But  my  goodness,"  exclaimed  Azalea,  "don't 
you  suppose  he's  noticed  how  the  men  were 
treating  his  father — turning  their  backs  on  him 
and  all  that?  Pa  McBirney  said  he  just  couldn't 
bring  himself  to  shake  hands  with  him  any 
more.  Don't  you  suppose  Mr.  Disbrow  ever 
had  spoken  of  that  at  home?" 

"He  always  was  bitter  and  fault-finding  any- 
way," said  Annie  Laurie.  "Mrs.  Disbrow  told 
me  that.  I  suppose  a  little  more  or  less  com- 
plaining wouldn't  mean  anything  to  her." 

"But  she  certainly  must  have  wondered  at 
having  the  house  torn  up  in  an  hour  or  two,  and 
at  setting  out  in  the  night  that  way  like  fugi- 
tives," said  Carin. 

"Oh,  well,  you  know  she  hated  to  go  out  driv- 
ing with  me  for  fear  the  neighbors  would  be 
peeping  at  her,  so  I  suppose  she  was  well  pleased 
to  go  in  the  night.  She'd  hate  to  have  folks  find 
out  what  a  poor  little  handful  of  things  they  had, 
and  all  that." 

"Of  course,"  said  Azalea,  "it  would  be  easy 
enough  to  find  which  way  they  went,  by  the 


172  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

wagon  marks.  They  must  have  had  the  cow  tied 
on  behind  the  wagon,  and  so  they  could  be  fol- 
lowed easily  and  overtaken  if — if  you  wanted 
them  to  be,  Annie  Laurie." 

"Yes, — I  know.     If— I  wanted  them  to  be." 

The  girl  sank  into  a  chair  and  rested  her  face 
in  her  hand,  staring  straight  before  her.  Azalea 
and  Carin  said  nothing.  They  were  thinking 
very,  very  hard,  too.  The  silence  was  long  and 
intense.  Then  they  heard  Miss  Parkhurst's 
steps  approaching  down  the  hall.  Annie  Laurie 
struck  her  two  hands  together  sharply. 

'T  can't  do  it!"  she  cried.  "I  can't  let  Sam's 
people  be  chased  like  that  and  brought  back. 
I  may  be  wrong,  and  weak,  and  not  fair  to  the 
poor  old  aunts,  but  I  just  can't  do  it,  that's  all 
there  is  to  it." 

Carin  and  Azalea  looked  at  her  with  perfect 
understanding. 

"No,"  said  Carin  softly,  "you  couldn't  do  that, 
could  you?  Plenty  of  people  could,  and  they'd 
be  just  and  right — maybe.  But  you  couldn't, 
and  I  like  you,  Annie  Laurie,  because  you  can't." 

Azalea  clapped  her  hands. 

"So  do  I !"  she  agreed.  "It  will  all  come  right 
for  you,  Annie.    That's  what  dear  Ma  McBir- 


SAM  173 

ney  would  say  if  she  knew.  Somehow  it  will 
all  come  right.  But  to  have  that  poor,  sneaking, 
miserable  man  chased,  and  that  sick  woman, 
and  little  Hannah  who  is  half-frightened  out  of 
her  life  anyway — 00-00-00 1    You  couldn't." 

Miss  Parkhurst  opened  the  door.  The  three 
girls  arose  respectfully  and  answered  her  good 
morning. 

"Algebra  this  morning,"  she  said  briskly. 

Perforce  they  turned  their  thoughts  to  matters 
that  were  anything  but  exciting. 

But  if  they  could  have  known  the  experiences 
their  friend  Sam  Disbrow  was  going  through, 
their  lesson  would  have  been  even  poorer  than 
it  was — and  Miss  Parkhurst  had  already  been 
obliged  to  tell  them  that  as  mathematicians  she 
did  not  consider  them  brilliantly  successful. 

Sam  had  set  off  with  a  light  heart.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  was  going  away  from 
home — that  depressing  and  melancholy  home, 
against  the  gloom  of  which  he  had  set  all  the 
forces  of  his  really  happy  and  brave  nature. 
But  the  home  had  been  too  much  for  him.  He 
could  feel  it  slowly  and  surely  dragging  him 
down  into  that  pit  of  gloom  and  distrust  where 
the  others  lived,  and  to  leave  it  behind,  to  have 


174  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

a  chance  to  go  to  school  and  get  the  education 
which  he  felt  he  must  have  if  he  was  to  make 
anything  of  himself,  filled  him  not  only  with 
joy  but  gratitude. 

Of  course,  he  still  wondered  how  his  father 
had  been  able  to  manage  it.  He  knew  that  they 
were  very  poor — that  his  father  had  not  been 
able  to  make  a  success  at  anything.  His  garden 
never  flourished  like  that  of  his  neighbors;  his 
chickens  never  laid  well;  his  cow  gave  only  a 
fraction  of  the  milk  she  should;  his  cotton  was 
but  a  scanty  crop;  and  even  as  an  undertaker, 
the  only  one  in  Lee,  he  sometimes  was  passed 
over  for  his  remote  rival  in  Rutherford. 

Recently  things  had  been  going  even  more 
wrong  than  usual.  Sam  could  not  explain  it, 
but  a  general  dislike  of  the  whole  Disbrow  fam- 
ily seemed  to  have  invaded  the  town.  His  father 
never  had  been  popular,  but  lately  Sam  had 
noticed  signs  of  actual  aversion.  How  was  it 
to  be  accounted  for?  If  ever  the  faintest  shadow 
of  an  idea  as  to  the  real  reason  for  this  dislike 
entered  Sam's  mind,  he  thrust  it  out,  strangled 
and  unrecognizable,  from  his  consciousness.  He 
believed  in  his  father  because  he  believed  in 
himself.    He  was  not  a  person  to  whom  suspi- 


SAM  175 

cion  came  naturally,  although  he  had  lived  in 
the  midst  of  it  all  his  days.  There  is  a  thing 
called  reaction — the  sharp  turning  of  the  spirit 
against  a  condition  or  an  idea.  Sam  had  reacted 
against  the  gray  dispositions  in  his  family.  He 
was  ready  to  blossom  into  the  scarlet  of  courage 
and  good  will,  of  power  and  joy,  if  only  a  little 
sun  could  shine  on  him. 

And  now  it  seemed  to  be  shining.  He  was 
going  away  to  school  as  other  boys  did.  There 
would  be  a  number  of  fellows  he  knew,  and  chief 
among  them  would  be  Richard  Heller,  the 
banker's  son.  He  liked  Heller.  He  counted  on 
him  to  "show  him  the  ropes"  at  the  academy. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  been  in  the 
smart  town  of  Rutherford.  His  heart  leaped  in 
him  as  he  stepped  out  from  the  station,  his  bag 
in  his  hand,  and  felt  the  throb  of  the  busy  town 
about  him.  Automobiles  were  ranged  in  line 
about  the  station,  carriages  with  well-kept  horses 
stood  in  the  shade  beneath  the  fine  elms,  the 
paved  streets  were  clean,  the  street  cars  new  and 
fresh  looking,  and  everywhere  were  busy,  active 
people,  moving  along  with  that  air  of  confidence 
and  efficiency  which  too  often  was  lacking  at 
Lee.     And  it  exhilarated  Sam.     All  that   was 


176  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

strong  and  eager  in  him  liked  it.    He  wanted  to 
be  a  part  of  a  community  like  that. 

He  took  the  street  car  that  ran  to  the  academy, 
and  sat  wrapt  in  interest  at  noting  the  fine  homes, 
the  well-kept  lawns,  the  excellent  public  build- 
ings. People  were  doing  things  here  that  were 
worth  while,  said  Sam  to  himself.  And  he,  in 
his  way,  was  going  to  be  a  part  of  it.  Perhaps 
he  could  stay  in  the  Academy  till  he  was  gradu- 
ated— with  honors,  maybe — and  then  he  would 
stay  on  at  Rutherford,  and  become  a  part  of  its 
busy,  stirring  life.  He  would  have  a  home  like 
the  one  he  was  passing,  with  tall  windows,  and 
the  light  streaming  in  through  beautiful  trees, 
and  a  porch  like  that,  with  his  family  sitting 
out  on  it  in  the  open,  and  not  hiding  away  in 
the  shadow.  Then  there  would  be  bright  flowers, 
like  those  in  that  yard,  and  friends  coming  and 
going  the  way  they  were  from  that  house.  And 
they  would  be  laughing — Annie  Laurie  loved  to 
laugh — and  sometimes  they  would  eat  on  the 
lawn.  But  he  drew  himself  up  with  a  flush. 
What  had  Annie  Laurie  to  do  with  it  all?  A 
girl  like  that — would  she  care  seriously  for  one 
of  the  queer,  shiftless  tribe  of  Disbrow?    Sam 


SAM  177 

hit  his  knee  angrily.  Let  him  attend  to  what 
was  before  him  and  stop  thinking  nonsense. 

He  reached  the  Academy,  and  walked  along 
under  its  wonderful  white  oaks  to  the  Ballenger 
dormitories,  where  he  knew  Heller  stayed.  Per- 
haps Heller  could  get  him  a  room  near  his  own. 
It  was  rather  a  trick  to  get  in  the  Ballenger  dor- 
mitories and  the  fellows  who  succeeded  were 
considered  lucky.  But  perhaps  Heller  could 
manage  it  for  him  somehow — they  always  had 
been  good  friends. 

He  was  directed  along  the  corridors,  hung 
with  their  many  pictures,  and  decorated  with 
plaster  casts,  to  a  corner  room  on  the  third  story. 

He  knocked  expectantly. 

"Come!"  commanded  Heller's  voice. 

Sam  threw  open  the  door. 

"Dick!"  he  cried,  "I've  come  on  to  school. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

He  dropped  his  suit  case  and  hastened  toward 
Richard  with  outstretched  hand. 

Dick  took  it  silently.  His  eyes,  that  used  to 
be  so  cordial  in  their  glances,  turned  upon  Sam 
with  a  scrutinizing  look.  They  searched  his 
drooping  face  sharply.  Then  something  like 
the  old  expression  returned.    Sam  was  not  slow. 


178  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

He  saw  that  something  was  quite  wrong — that 
Dick  had  been  thinking  evil  of  him  in  some  way, 
and  that  now  that  he  had  met  him  face  to  face, 
he  was  finding  it  difficult  to  sustain  the  suspicion. 

"What's  the  matter,  man?"  Sam  cried.  "What 
are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for?  Why  don't 
you  speak?" 

"Sit  down,"  answered  Dick  brusquely. 
"Something  is  the  matter,  Sam,  but  I'd  rather 
be  skinned  than  tell  you  what  it  is.  All  the  same 
I'm  not  going  to  go  around  snubbing  you  and 
leaving  you  in  the  dark  after  all  the  good  times 
we've  had  together." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  cried  Sam. 
"Skin  away,  old  man.  Let's  have  the  operation 
over  with." 

Dick,  it  was  evident,  dared  not  give  himself 
time  to  think.  He  blurted  out  what  he  had  to 
say. 

"My  dad  wrote  me  that  you  were  thinking  of 
coming  down  here  to  school." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  and  he  said  the  neighbors  all  were 
wondering  where  in  the  dickens  your  father  got 
the  money  to  send  you." 


SAM  179 

**I  don't  know,"  answered  Sam  angrily,  "that 
it  is  any  of  their  blamed  business." 

"It  mightn't  be  under  some  circumstances," 
Dick  went  on.    "But—" 

"Yes?" 

"This  is  where  the  skinning  process  comes  in." 

"Rip  ahead." 

"But  they  think  it  mighty  queer,  you  know, 
that  your  dad  should  come  into  money  just  at 
the  time  that  Simeon  Pace's  money  disap- 
peared." 

Sam  was  on  his  feet. 

"Say!"  he  gasped,  "I  don't  understand." 

"They  say,"  went  on  Dick,  gulping  with  dis- 
tress, yet  determined  to  finish  the  whole  story 
then  and  there,  "that  Simeon  Pace  carried  his 
money  in  his  hollow  tin  arm,  and  that  your 
father  took  that  arm  from  Simeon  Pace's  body, 
and  helped  himself  to  the  money.  Now,  there 
you  are,  and — dang  it,  Sam, — you'll  have  to  try 
to  forgive  me  for  telling  you." 

Sam  sank  into  his  seat  again  and  sat  star- 
ing. The  little  clock  on  the  mantel  shelf  ticked 
off  the  seconds  briskly — ticked  on  and  on,  and 
still  Sam  sat  and  stared,  and  Dick  waited,  hardly 
daring  to  breathe.    He  could  see  that  Sam  was 


i8o  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

going  over  the  whole  situation —  was  balancing 
this  against  that,  thinking  over  the  things  he  had 
noticed,  "sizing  up"  the  situation  with  his  good 
clear  brain. 

Suddenly  he  got  up  and  seized  his  suit  case. 

"Where  you  going?"  shouted  Dick. 

"Home,"  said  Sam  quietly.  "I'm  going 
home." 

Dick  ran  forward  and,  grasping  Sam's  hand, 
wrung  it  with  all  his  strength. 

"Oh,  Sam,"  he  cried.  "How  I  wish  it  could 
have  been  otherwise!  But  I  had  to  tell  you.  I 
couldn't  let  a  thing  like  that  lie  between  us." 

"No,"  said  Sam  wearily.  "It's  got  to  be 
cleared  up.  Living  a  lie!  I  remember  a  sermon 
— Annie  Laurie  and  I  heard  it — living  a  lie! 
No,  I  couldn't.  Good-bye,  Dick.  It — it  wasn't 
for  me,  was  it?"  He  looked  about  the  charming 
room,  and  through  the  window  at  the  great  cam- 
pus. "Good-bye.  And — thank  you.  You  did 
right.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  since  we  were 
such  old — " 

"Friends!"  cried  Dick  with  a  half-sob.  "Such 
old  friends,  Sam.  Yes,  go  home  and  clear  it 
up.  And  come  back,  old  man — whatever  you 
do,  come  back!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

MARCHING  ORDERS 

Sam  saw  nothing  now  of  the  inviting  homeS' 
and  their  lovely  gardens  as  he  rode  back  to  the 
station.  The  world  seemed  black  shot  through 
with  little  darts  of  scarlet  They  kept  teasing 
him — these  darting  flecks  of  red,  sharp-pointed 
and  angry.  At  the  station  he  found  that  it  was 
an  hour  and  a  half  before  train  time,  so  he  sat 
down  stolidly  to  wait.  He  had  missed  his  lunch- 
eon, and  it  was  now  near  dinner  time,  but  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  to  get  anything  to  eat. 

The  time,  too,  raced  by,  keeping  pace  with 
those  swift-speeding  thoughts  of  his,  on  which 
he  could  not  have  drawn  the  reins  had  he  tried. 
And  presently  he  was  on  the  train  again,  going 
homeward.  He  soon  would  see  his  father,  who 
would  not,  Sam  had  to  confess  with  biting 
shame,  look  him  in  the  eye  nor  answer  any  ques- 
tion frankly.  Moreover,  it  would  be  his  fate 
to  add  to  his  mother's  misery;  he  would  see 
Hannah  turning  away  from  him  even  more  than 

i8i 


1 82  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

she  had.  And  all  the  town  would  be  looking 
at  him  with  the  eyes  of  suspicion.  He  woujd 
read:  "Son  of  a  thief!  Son  of  a  thief!"  in  their 
averted  glances. 

Of  course  his  father  might  not  be  guilty.  And 
yet,  somehow,  shamefully,  heart-breakingly,  it 
was  borne  in  upon  him  that  he  was.  And  why 
should  he,  Sam,  who  had  done  no  harm  to  any- 
one, go  back  to  face  it?  Why  should  Annie 
Laurie  and  her  friends  see  his  shame?  He  could 
disappear  now — slip  off  the  train  at  the  next 
station — and  walk  and  walk  till  he  reached 
some  place  where  nobody  knew  him,  and  then 
he  could  go  to  work  and  care  for  himself,  and 
win  an  honorable  name.  That  was  what  Amer- 
ica was  for,  he  had  heard  Mr.  Carson  say,  to 
give  a  chance  to  the  individual.  A  man  had  a 
right  to  prove  himself,  and  to  be  judged  by  him- 
self, apart  from  and  regardless  of  his  family. 

Yet,  to  run  away  from  a  thing  like  that,  to 
let  the  old  neighbors  think  him  a  poor  wretch, 
to  lose  the  regard  of — of  all  those  he  cared  about, 
was  out  of  the  question.  And  moreover,  he 
couldn't  let  his  father  go  on  keeping  back  the 
fortune  that  belonged  to  others.  He'd  have  to 
go  back  and  make  him  right  himself. 


MARCHING  ORDERS  183 

His  thoughts  came  clashing  together  as  a  re- 
turning wave  meets  and  breaks  against  an  ad- 
vancing one  upon  the  seashore.  And  the  tumult 
and  raging  was  too  much  for  him.  He  found 
himself  incapable  of  going  on  just  then.  The 
train  stopped  for  a  moment  at  some  woodland 
siding — the  track  was  but  a  single  one  and  such 
stops  were  occasionally  necessary — and  almost 
without  thinking,  Sam  leaped  from  the  platform 
and  slipped  away  into  the  twilight. 

He  walked  along,  hardly  knowing  where  he 
was  going.  His  suit  case  was  not  much  of  a 
handicap,  for  there  was  little  enough  in  it.  He 
could  not  have  told,  if  any  one  had  asked  him, 
why  he  kept  on  pounding  along  the  road,  nor 
why,  when  he  came  to  a  heavily  wooded  hill,  he 
should  have  gone  in  through  an  opening  in  the 
trees  and  begun  to  climb  its  gentle  slope.  He 
only  knew  that  he  was  grateful  to  have  the  trees 
closing  around  him  like  that,  hiding  him  from 
the  sight  of  men. 

He  went  on,  stumbling  over  roots,  half-start- 
ing at  deep  shadows,  and  reached  the  summit. 
Here  the  trees  had  been  cut  away,  and  though 
the  songs  of  those  beneath  him  surged  up  to  his 
ears,  he  presently  found  himself  standing  be- 


184  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

neath  the  clear  sky,  perfectly  sheltered  from 
view.  There  was  a  scythe-like  young  moon, 
well  toward  the  zenith,  and  a  few  pale  stars. 
The  weather  had  softened  and  warmed  and 
spring  was  sending  her  sweet  messages  abroad. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  upward;  then 
he  cast  himself  on  the  ground,  with  his  face  to 
the  earth,  and  in  the  solitude  his  sharp  suffering 
gave  vent  to  itself  in  sobs. 

Nor  was  it  alone  for  the  shame  and  sorrow 
of  the  present  that  he  wept.  It  seemed  as  if  all 
the  tears  he  had  held  back  during  his  lonely  and 
baffled  boyhood  had  their  way  now  and  streamed 
from  his  eyes.  He  cried  blindly,  passionately. 
He  emptied  his  soul  of  grief.  And  then  he  sat 
up  weakly  and  looked  around  him.  The  whip- 
poorwills  were  calling  to  each  other.  Distant 
hounds  were  barking.  The  delicate  little  moon 
was  running  her  fragile  skiff  over  the  sky-sea 
toward  its  western  port.  It  was  night,  and  the 
world  was  asleep.  What  was  it  Annie  Laurie 
sang? 

'All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart. 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art." 

He  hoped  she  was  sleeping — that  poor  Annie 
Laurie,  who  was  having  so  much  trouble,  and 


MARCHING  ORDERS  185 

none  of  it  in  any  way  her  fault.  And  had  she, 
too,  been  suspecting  him?  Had  she  held  this  ter- 
rible idea  of  his  father  and  kept  it  to  herself? 
Had  she  come  to  his  house  that  day  she  had  been 
so  kind  and  good,  to  see  what  they  were  like — 
the  Disbrows?  He  seemed  to  be  on  fire  from 
head  to  foot  with  shame.  Back  and  forth,  like 
wild  beasts  pacing,  raged  his  thoughts.  He  had 
no  idea  of  the  passage  of  time.  Only  the  stars 
kept  moving  on,  beautifully,  in  their  wonderful 
order,  and  the  wind,  growing  chillier  now,  blew 
upon  him,  and  still  the  whippoorwills  called. 
By  and  by  the  color  of  the  world  began  to 
change.  Something  strange  happened  to  the 
night — it  grew  pale,  thin,  transparent.  The 
birds  began  stirring  about,  making  soft  noises. 
The  cattle  lowed  in  the  near-by  fields.  Then  a 
kind  of  milky  lightness,  delicate  as  one  of  Carin's 
scarfs,  drifted  up  into  the  sky.  Presently  it 
turned  a  soft  pink;  then  rosy  red;  then  it  was 
edged  with  orange  and  embroidered  with  saf- 
fron. It  was  sunup,  and  Sam  Disbrow  faced 
the  most  important  day  of  his  life. 

He  had  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  he  was 
a  coward  or  a  brave  man — whether  he  was  going 
to  run  away  or  stay  and  fight.    And  he  didn't 


i86  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

know.  As  he  got  dizzily  to  his  feet,  he  hadn't 
an  idea  which  he  was.  But  the  colors  in  the 
sky  seemed  to  be  cheering  him  on  like  trumpets. 
Something  wild,  strange  and  splendid  swept  into 
his  spirit — something  that  made  him  feel  as  if 
he  were  about  to  set  out  on  a  march  with  brave 
men — men  who  could  die  for  an  idea.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  swung  into  the  ranks,  and  his  leader 
had  shouted  ^'Forward,  march!" 

Sam  went  down  the  hill,  and  struck  a  road  on 
the  far  side  of  it.  He  followed  it  to  a  farmhouse 
and  asked  if  he  might  have  some  breakfast. 
They  gave  him  good  bacon  and  corn  bread, 
butter  and  milk.  He  ate  like  one  famished,  and 
then,  having  learned  the  schedule  of  the  trains, 
and  that  he  had  barely  time  to  catch  the  next 
one  bound  toward  Lee,  he  ran  as  hard  as  he 
could  to  the  distant  station.  The  train  drew  in 
while  he  was  yet  a  block  away,  but  he  sent  out 
a  shout  that  startled  the  engineer  in  his  cab. 
Good-naturedly,  they  held  the  train  for  him. 
He  swung  on  the  rear  platform.  And,  though 
he  could  not  forget  for  a  moment  all  that  he  was 
going  back  to,  still  he  was  indefinably  happy. 

"Forward,  march,"  his  invisible  leader  had 
commanded.     Sam  did  not  stop  to  find  a  name 


MARCHING  ORDERS  187 

for  this  leader — to  call  him  God.  He  obeyed, 
and  having  placed  himself  under  marching 
orders,  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  the  conductor 
called  him  at  Lee,  arose  refreshed,  and  went  out 
to  fight  his  battle. 

There  were  not  many  persons  on  the  street. 
A  mid-forenoon  quietude  rested  over  the  little 
town.  A  few  neighbors  Sam  did  meet,  but  they 
had  no  chance  to  turn  the  cold  shoulder  to  him 
this  morning  for  he  hardly  saw  them.  He  was 
bent  for  home,  and  he  strode  forward  with  no 
thought  of  anything  but  meeting  his  father  face 
to  face  and  hurling  at  him  the  question : 

"Did  you  take  Simeon  Pace's  money?" 

He  forgot  that  he  was  a  son,  and  must  pay  a 
son's  deference,  or  that  Hector  Disbrow,  sus- 
pected of  being  a  thief,  was  his  father.  He  felt 
as  if  his  soul  must  put  that  inquiry  to  the  soul 
of  the  man.  And  on  his  answer  depended  honor, 
happiness,  everything. 

As  he  drew  near  the  house,  he  saw  that  there 
was  something  unusual  about  it.  With  a  sick 
feeling,  he  realized  that  it  looked  even  more 
vacant  and  dejected  than  ordinarily.  He  tried 
the  front  door ;  found  it  locked ;  sped  to  the  rear ; 
was  unable  to  enter;  and  then,  rushing  to  the 


i88  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

stable,  realized  the  whole  truth.  His  family 
had  gone.  They  had  run  away  in  the  night. 
The  whole  thing  was  true.  His  father  was  a 
thief — and  now  he  was  making  of  himself  a 
fugitive. 

But  the  feeling  of  having  come  back  to  fight 
a  battle  as  a  brave  man  would  fight  it,  did  not 
desert  him.  The  black  despair  of  the  night 
before  had  been  routed  by  all  the  better  angels 
of  his  nature.  He  was  in  the  thick  of  the  battle 
now,  beyond  question.  He  turned  his  back  on 
the  house  and  went  toward  the  town. 

On  his  way,  he  met  Hi  Kitchell,  who  had  been 
excused  from  school  because  of  a  toothache,  and 
who  was  running  along,  his  hand  to  his  face, 
quite  willing  to  talk  about  his  misery  to  anyone. 
Sam  called  him. 

"Hello,  Hi.    Toothache?" 

"You  bet!" 

"What  you  going  home  for?  Why  don't  you 
go  to  a  dentist?" 

"Naw.     I'm  going  home." 

"No  use  in  that.  Turn  around  the  other  way. 
Come  on  down  to  the  dentist's." 

Hi  wriggled.    "I'm  afraid." 

"I'll  go  with  you." 


MARCHING  ORDERS  189 

"Will  yeh?" 

"You  bet  I  will.  And  Hi,  I've  got  a  trouble 
that's  much  worse  than  toothache." 

"Have  you,  Sam — for  sure?" 

"For  sure  I  have.  Hi.  Now  if  you  had  a 
terrible  trouble  what  would  you  do?  I've  told 
you  where  to  go  to  get  a  toothache  cured,  but 
where  would  you  go  if — if  everything  you  cared 
for  seemed  tumbling  to  pieces?" 

Hi  came  up  close  to  Sam.  He  had  forgotten 
about  his  toothache,  and  he  looked  at  Sam  with 
his  ferret  eyes,  in  which  the  tears  had  now  gath- 
ered. 

"Sam,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  "I  know 
about  your  trouble.  I've  heard  of  it.  And — 
and  you  know  your  people  have  gone  away. 
They've  gone  over  the  mountain,  I  reckon. 
Why,  Sam,  if  I  was  in  trouble  like  that  I'd  go 
straight  to  Mr.  Summers." 

"But  he's  the  Methodist  preacher,  you  know, 
and  my  folks  are  Baptists." 

"What's  the  difference?"  cried  Hi  defiantly. 
"I  don't  see  no  difference.  Anyway,  if  Mr. 
Summers  was  a  Populist  I'd  go  to  him  just  the 
same." 

Sam  was  surprised  to  hear  himself  laughing. 


190  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"I  will,"  he  declared,  and  he  and  Hi  tramped 
on  toward  town.  At  the  dentist's  office  Sam 
started  to  turn  in  with  Hi,  but  Hi  stopped  him. 

"You  don't  need  to  come,"  he  said.  "I  reckon 
I  can  stand  a  little  tooth-tinkering.  You  get  on 
to  Mr.  Summers.    And — and.  Sam — " 

"Yes?" 

"If  you  don't  want  to  stay  up  there  to  the 
house  alone,  you  come  down  to  our  place.  My 
ma,  she'd  love  to  have  you.    Sam — " 

"Yes." 

"We  know  what  trouble  is,  ma  and  me,  see? 
Don't  nobody  around  these  parts  know  better 
than  we  do.  Mr.  Carson,  he  set  us  on  our  feet, 
and  now  we  can  hold  up  our  heads  and  look 
people  in  the  face.  My,  but  it  feels  good!  But 
we  know  what  trouble  is — all  kinds,  pretty  near. 
You  come  to  us." 

Sam  held  out  a  tense  hand. 

"Put  it  there,  Hi." 

Hi  "put  it  there"  and  turned  valorously  up 
the  dentist's  terrible  stairs. 

As  for  Sam,  he  kept  vigorously  on  his  way. 
He  thought  of  those  automobiles  he  had  seen  the 
day  before,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  all  cranked 
up,  with  a  good  spark  on,  and  was  ready  for  a 


MARCHING  ORDERS  1911 

long  hard  run.  So  he  turned  up  Burchard  Ave- 
nue, and  in  at  the  gate  of  the  little  Methodist 
parsonage. 

The  first  person  he  saw  was  Mrs.  Summers, 
who  had  just  got  baby  Jonathan  asleep  and  was 
setting  him  out  of  doors  in  his  carriarge,  to  grow. 
She  held  up  a  small  brown  finger  to  warn  Sam 
that  conversation  was  not  to  be  permitted  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  sleeping  prince,  and  led  the  way 
into  the  living  room.  Then  she  went  in  search 
of  her  husband,  who,  it  appeared,  was  shut  up 
in  the  cell-like  room  he  called  his  study.  He 
came  striding  out  of  his  retreat  and  grasped  Sam 
by  the  hand. 

"Thought  you  were  off  to  Rutherford,  son." 

"So  I  was,  sir,  but — I  came  back." 

"So  I  see.    Why?" 

"I — I  heard  what  they  were  saying  about  my 
father,  sir.    Dick  Heller  told  me." 

"Well,  well,  he  did,  eh?  It  was  better  on  the 
whole,  I  reckon.  I  had  two  minds  to  tell  you 
myself,  and  then  I  just  lacked  the  ginger.  But 
now  you  know  what  you're  up  against,  don't 
you?  And  your  folks  left  last  night,  too.  Some 
of  the  neighbors  wanted  to  have  a  posse  set  out 
after  them  and  bring  them  back,  but  Mr.  Car- 


192  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

son  said  Annie  Laurie  Pace  was  dead  set  against 
it.  So  he  forbade  it.  You  don't  mind  my  speak- 
ing right  out?    It's  best  that  way,  isn't  it?" 

"Best  that  way,"  murmured  Sam  with  dry 
lips. 

"But  you've  come  back,  son,  to  face  the  music. 
Well,  what  can  I  do  to  help  you?" 

"Mr.  Summers,  do  you  think  my  father 
guilty?    Do  you  think  he  took  the  money?" 

"I've  no  more  information  on  the  subject  than 
you,"  said  Mr.  Summers.  "What  do  you  think 
— as  man  to  man?" 

They  faced  each  other  silently.  Each  knew 
that  the  other  gave  verdict  and  that  it  was 
"guilty." 

"And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  "circumstan- 
tial evidence  is  a  shaky  thing.  A  very  shaky, 
tricky  thing." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam.  But  there  was  no  hope  in 
his  tone. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do,  Sam?" 

"I've  come  to  ask  you,  sir.  I've  a  hundred 
dollars  that  father  gave  me.  I'd  like  to  give 
that  to  Annie  Laurie  if- it  would  help  her  out 
any.    But  what  is  a  hundred  dollars?   Why,  Mr. 


'But  you've  come  back,  son,  to  face  the  music. 


MARCHING  ORDERS  193 

Pace  had  thousands  and  thousands!  And  I  hear 
they're  having  a  terrible  hard  time  altogether 
— that  they  can't  get  fit  helpers,  and  that  Miss 
Adnah  isn't  turning  out  so  good  a  boss  after  all, 
and  that  the  accounts  are  getting  all  mixed  up. 
It  looks  as  if  the  whole  thing  was  going  to 
pieces." 

"It  needn't,"  said  Mr.  Summers  rather 
sharply. 

Sam  looked  up  questioningly. 

"If  they  had  one  good  strong,  capable  helper 
on  the  place,  say  a  man  who  was  willing  to  work 
for  nothing  for  the  time  being,  a  man  with  sense 
enough  to  find  out  the  best  ways  of  feeding  cat- 
tle and  caring  for  them,  and  peddling  milk,  and 
who  wouldn't  mind  sitting  up  after  a  hard  day's 
work  to  straighten  out  books,  and  who'd  try  to 
build  up  instead  of  putting  in  his  best  licks  tear- 
ing down — the  way  those  fool  hands  they  have 
now  seem  to  be  doing — why,  there'd  be  some 
hope.    See?" 

Sam  got  to  his  feet. 

"Do  you  mean,  Mr,  Summers,  that  I — " 

Mr.  Summers  took  his  pipe  from  the  mantel 
shelf,  deliberately  knocked  the  tobacco  out  of 


194  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

it,  refilled  it  from  a  generous  tobacco  can  and 
lit  a  match.  While  the  match  burned  he  turned 
toward  Sam. 

"You  can  just  stake  your  life  I  mean  it,  son," 

said  he. 

"But  will  Annie  Laurie — will  the  aunts  let 

me?" 

The  reverend  Mr.  Summers  nodded  his  long, 

thin  head. 

"I'll  tell  'em  to,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Carson  will 
advise  'em  too.  You'll  be  making  reparation, 
Samuel.  You'll  be  squaring  yourself  and  your 
family.  You'll  get  back  what  belongs  to  you, 
the  respect  of  the  community,  the  regard  of  your 
— particular  friends.  And  you'll  live  here, 
in  my  house,  understand?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Summers,  I  couldn't  do  that." 

"I  say  you'll  live  here,"  roared  the  tall 
preacher.  "Do  you  think  I'd  let  you  go  back  to 
that  forsaken  house  and  sit  there  with  all  the 
sneaking  ghosts  of  memory  putting  their  miser- 
able noses  in  the  doors  and  windows  o'  nights, 
making  goblin  faces  at  3^ou?  Not  much.  Bar- 
bara!   Barbara,  I  say!" 

Mrs.  Barbara  came  running  on  her  little  feet. 

"Absalom,"  she  whispered  excitedly,  "what's 


MARCHING  ORDERS  195 

the  use  in  waking  the  baby?  Don't  you  know 
any  better  than  that?" 

The  giant  collapsed. 

*'Willow  waly,"  he  gasped.  "Can't  I  ever 
remember  about  that  young-un?  But,  Barbara, 
I  suppose  you  have  been  listening  to  our  con- 
versation?" 

"I  have  been  sitting  in  the  next  room,"  replied 
little  Mrs.  Summers  with  dignity.  "It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  me  to  avoid  hearing 
parts  of  it." 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  think?  Is  this  boy 
going  back  to  that  shut-up  house  of  his,  or  is 
he  going  to  stay  here  at  the  parsonage?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know." 

Mrs.  Barbara  smiled  her  sidelong  smile. 

"What's  the  use  of  asking  such  a  silly  question 
as  that?"  she  inquired.  "Of  course  he's  going 
to  stay  here.  I  was  just  thinking  I'd  run  up 
that  rosebud  muslin  into  curtains  for  his  room." 

The  Reverend  Summers  turned  a  radiant 
smile  on  Sam. 

"That's  the  woman  for  you!"  he  cried.  "You 
think  you  can  get  ahead  of  her,  but  you  can't! 
You'd  have  to  be  smarter  than  a  possum  to  get 
ahead  of  her.     Rosebud  curtains!     Now,  what 


196  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

do  you  think  of  that,  Sam?  Could  you  have  got 
as  far  as  rosebud  curtains  in  that  length  of 
time?" 

He  caught  his  little  wife  up  in  his  great 
arms  and  tossed  her  toward  the  ceiling  as  if  she 
had  been  a  baby.  Then  he  kissed  her  so  loud 
that  the  smack  must  have  been  heard  in  the 
street,  and  dropped  her  in  his  sleepy  hollow 
chair. 

"Where's  my  hat?"  he  demanded.  "My  nice, 
six-year-old  Panama — the  Panama  of  many 
journeys,  of  my  courtship,  of  my  marriage,  and 
probably  of  my  old  age?  Why,  Sam,  you  ought 
to  count  the  rings  on  that  hat.  It's  more'n  a 
hundred,  I  reckon — if  you  judge  it  like  you  do 
oaks.  Come,  sneak  out  the  back  way  so  as  not 
to  shake  the  royal  bed  of  the  slumbering  poten- 
tate. Where  are  we  going?  To  talk  with  Miss 
Adnah  Pace.  Yes,  I  know  she's  rather  a  diffi- 
cult one  to  manage.  But  I  can  manage  her. 
That's  my  specialty,  managing  women." 

He  stopped  at  the  window  to  throw  a  kiss  to 
his  smiling  wife. 

"Come  on,  son,"  he  commanded;  "forward, 
march!" 


MARCHING  ORDERS  197 

Had  he  heard  the  words  ringing  in  Sam's 
brain? 

Perhaps  so.  Anyway  he  spoke  them.  "For- 
ward, march!"  he  said.  He,  too,  knew  Sam  was 
going  into  battle. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"THE  DOLL  lady" 

"My  dear  Annie  Laurie,"  said  Mrs.  Carson 
one  Friday  afternoon  not  long  after  this,  "will 
you  do  Carin  and  myself  the  favor  of  spending 
the  week  end  with  us?  I  will  send  for  you  to- 
morrow morning,  if  you  will  do  so,  and  we'll 
have  a  chance  to  talk.  Whenever  we  try  to  talk 
nowadays,  Miss  Helena  Parkhurst  cries  out 
'Physiography!'  or  'Grammar!'  or  'American 
History!'  Anyone  would  think  she  didn't  want 
us  to  become  acquainted." 

She  shook  her  finger  smilingly  at  Miss  Park- 
hurst, who  was  putting  the  schoolroom  in  order 
at  the  close  of  five  hard  days  of  teaching,  and 
was  well  pleased  at  the  thought  that  she  could 
retire  to  the  peace  of  her  own  little  sitting  room 
and  follow  her  own  inclination  for  a  day  or  two. 
There  were  stitches  to  take  and  letters  to  write 
and  thoughts  to  think,  and  the  young  woman 
who  gave  so  unstintingly  of  her  time  and  knowl- 
edge to  three  restless  girls,  sighed  with  relief  at 

198 


*'THE  DOLL  LADY"  199 

the  thought  of  being  her  own  mistress  for  a 
while. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Carson,"  Annie  Laurie 
had  answered.  "I  should  love  to  come.  You 
can't  think  what  a  pleasure  it  would  be.  But 
ought  I  to  leave  the  aunts?  They  just  sit  and 
watch  for  me  to  come  home." 

"The  aunts  shall  be  bidden  to  Sunday  din- 
ner," said  Mrs.  Carson.  "We'll  all  be  gay  to- 
gether." 

She  did  not  say  it,  but  she  knew  that  the  flutter 
of  getting  ready  for  such  an  event  as  going  out 
to  The  Shoals  to  dinner  would  keep  Miss  Adnah 
and  Miss  Zillah  well  occupied  over  Saturday. 

"Please  come,  Annie  Laurie,"  begged  Carin. 
"I'm  getting  quite  dull,  really." 

Annie  Laurie  turned  to  laugh  at  her  friend. 
Quite  dull!  It  seemed  impossible  that  anyone 
could  be  dull  in  the  Carson  house.  Something 
was  nearly  always  going  on.  Mrs.  Carson  would 
be  giving  a  luncheon  to  the  ladies  interested  in 
the  Mountain  Industries,  or  Mr.  Carson  would 
have  gentlemen  to  dinner — gentlemen  who  came 
down  from  New  York  or  Chicago — or  there 
would  be  a  moonlight  picnic,  or  a  riding  party, 
or  a  musicale,  or  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carson  would 
be  packing  up  for  one  of  their  sudden  journeys. 


200  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Annie  Laurie  had  been 
asked  to  stay  overnight  at  the  mansion.  She 
had  been  Carin's  schoolmate,  but  hardly  more 
than  that,  as  she  understood  very  well.  She  had 
a  clear  mind,  capable  of  seeing  things  as  they 
were,  and  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  sort  of  victory 
that  she  should,  at  last,  be  asked  to  join  them  in 
so  intimate  and  social  a  manner.  It  showed  her 
that  perhaps  she  was  not  so  "stifl"  after  all. 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  her  clothes,  as  the 
thoughts  of  any  girl  will  when  bidden  for  a  visit. 
The  wardrobe  that  used  to  be  so  well  kept  up, 
in  its  narrow  limits,  had  grown  shabby  now. 
She  had  been  wearing  black  for  her  father,  and 
her  mourning  had  consisted  of  frocks  which 
originally  had  been  colored  and  which  had  been 
dyed.  They  had  not  taken  the  dye  very  well, 
and  they  felt  either  rough  or  flimsy  to  the  touch. 
Annie  Laurie  would  have  liked  to  put  charming 
clothes  on  that  big  strong  body  of  hers.  Her 
ideal  of  beautiful  dressing  was  before  her  daily, 
in  Mrs.  Carson,  whose  dresses,  lovely  in  color 
and  texture,  never  seemed  to  have  too  much 
trimming  on  them,  or  to  do  anything  but  drape 
and  decorate  her  slender  graceful  figure.  But 
Annie  Laurie  had  more  sense  than  vanity,  and 


'THE  DOLL  LADY"  201 

she  said  to  herself  that  she  would  not  miss  such 
a  pleasure  and  privilege  as  a  two-day  visit  at 
The  Shoals  because  of  shabby  garments. 

She  sat,  however,  late  that  night,  pressing  her 
best  black  frock,  and  sewing  fresh  ruchings  into 
it,  curling  her  plume  with  her  sharp  little  pen- 
knife, polishing  her  boots,  putting  new  bows  on 
her  slippers,  and  running  fresh  ribbons  in  her 
underclothes.  She  packed  her  satchel  daintily, 
wrapping  up  her  garments  in  fresh  tissue  paper 
and  dropping  in  a  little  bag  of  lavender.  Carin 
should  see  that  she  had  the  tastes  of  a  lady,  at 
least. 

There  was  much  to  do  the  next  morning,  too, 
for  the  Pace  house  was  a  systematic  one,  and  the 
Saturday  routine  must  in  no  way  be  neglected. 
But  by  half-after-ten,  Annie  Laurie,  fresh,  and 
glowing  with  anticipation,  stood  with  her  hat 
and  jacket  on  waiting  for  Carin;  and  not  more 
than  a  minute  behind  time,  Carin  drove  up  to 
the  door,  all  in  charming  spring  green,  and  car- 
rying a  bunch  of  pink  tulips  in  her  hands  for  the 
aunts. 

'We're  to  take  a  little  drive  the  first  thing, 
Annie  Laurie,"  announced  Carin.  "The  valley 
is  delightful.    Everything  is  bursting  into  bloom 


202  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

at  once.  Mother  said  we  must  go  and  look  and 
look  and  smell  and  smell  till  we  have  soaked  in 
the  spring." 

What  care-free,  happy  people  the  Carsons 
were,  Annie  Laurie  thought.  One  had  only  to 
be  with  them  a  very  short  time  to  be  convinced 
that  the  world  was  an  immensely  pleasant  place. 

So  on  they  went  up  the  sweet  valley,  over 
which  the  mountains  hung  with  a  friendly  and 
benevolent  air.  The  Judas  trees  were  in  bloom 
and  the  orchards  budding;  on  every  branch  the 
fresh  leaves  were  starting  out,  and  the  crimson 
maple  had  flung  forth  its  beautiful  foliage. 
Annie  Laurie  felt  her  heart  leaping  in  her,  and 
the  black  care  that  had  been  hanging  over  her  of 
late  lifted  like  mist  before  the  sun.  Looking 
up,  she  could  see  where  Azalea's  house  was 
perched  fairly  upon  the  edge  of  the  mountain 
ledge.  There  it  hung,  like  an  eagle's  great  nest, 
daringly  near  the  long  slope  of  old  Mount  Ten- 
nyson. 

"Isn't  she  a  dear — that  Azalea  girl?"  asked 
Carin  enthusiastically,  "Never  was  there  such  a 
friend!  Why,  just  having  her  believe  in  me 
the  way  she  does,  makes  me  long  to  do  things. 
For  example,  I  had  known  since  I  was  a  very, 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  203 

very  small  girl  that  I  could  draw  and  paint  a 
little,  and  I  was  forever  asking  for  a  studio. 
But  when  mama  had  given  me  one,  I  was  so  lazy 
and  dreamy  that  I  hardly  did  anything  in  it. 
Then  Azalea  got  after  me.  She  said  I  was  going 
to  be  a  great  painter.  She  found  trees  and  hills 
for  me  to  paint.  She  sat  for  me  herself,  pa- 
tiently, hour  after  hour,  while  I  made  horrible 
daubs  of  her.  But  she  kept  saying  I  could  do 
better  if  I  tried,  and  do  you  know,  by  and  by  I 
actually  did  do  better.  Then  papa  decided  I 
had  a  bit  of  talent,  and  he  arranged  with  Mr. 
Bascomb  to  come  up  from  Rutherford  once  a 
week  to  give  me  instruction.  And  by  and  by 
when  I'm  old  enough  I'm  to  go  back  to  Chicago 
to  the  Art  Institute,  maybe;  or  to  New  York; 
and  afterward  if  I  show  I'm  worth  it,  to  Paris 
or  Rome." 

"Oh,  oh!"  sighed  Annie  Laurie  in  a  sort  of 
rapture.  "Paris!  Rome!  Will  you  really  be 
able  to  go  to  places  like  that,  Carin?  But  I  for- 
get— you  already  have  been  to  them." 

"Yes,  I've  been,"  said  Carin.  "And  you'll  go 
too,  sometime,  if  you  want  to  badly  enough.  Of 
course,  it  happened  to  be  easy  for  me.  Papa  and 
mama  took  me,  and  I  didn't  half  appreciate  it. 


204  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

I  was  so  young  and  the  chance  came  so  easily. 
But  I  shall  appreciate  it  next  time;  and  maybe 
you'll  go  with  me.    Who  knows?" 

Annie  Laurie  drew  back  in  her  seat  with  a 
sort  of  shudder. 

"Oh,  Carin,"  she  said,  "I'm  afraid  things 
aren't  going  to  be  like  that  with  me.  Fine 
chances  aren't  going  to  come  my  way.  Once 
I  might  have  thought  they  would,  but  now 
everything  is  changed.  There  seems  to  be  so 
little  chance  of  finding  poor  dad's  money,  and 
I  know  so  little  about  earning  any.  Of  course 
since  Sam  came,  it's  better.  The  cows  are  being 
properly  cared  for,  the  milk  gets  ofif  in  time, 
and  the  bills  are  sent  out  correctly,  and  all  that." 

"Wasn't  it  fine  of  him  to  come  back  and  work 
for  you  like  that?" 

"Fine?  I  think  it  was  magnificent.  At  first, 
the  aunts  couldn't  understand  it  at  all.  You 
know  I  hadn't  told  them  my  suspicions  about 
Mr.  Disbrow,  and  I  had  begged  the  neighbors 
not  to  do  so.  The  idea  hadn't  occurred  to  them. 
It  was  better  for  them  to  go  on  hunting  and  pry- 
ing around  all  their  lives  than  to  get  to  hating 
some  one  and  feeling  revengeful.  So  they 
couldn't  see  what  Sam  meant  by  saying  he  would 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  205 

come  and  work  for  us  for  nothing.  Aunt  Adnah 
never  had  liked  him  very  well.  She  called  him 
'that  Disbrow  boy.'  But  Mr.  Summers  and 
Mr.  Carson  persuaded  her  that  Sam  was  going 
into  the  dairy  business  sometime  and  that  he 
would  consider  it  a  privilege  to  work  for  us  and 
learn  the  business,  and  that  contented  her.  It 
made  her  think  he  was  practical  and  she  began 
to  like  him  better.  As  for  Sam,  he  works  from 
early  morning  till  late  at  night,  and  the  place 
begins  to  look  the  way  it  did  when  dad  was  man- 
aging it." 

"And  does  he  seem  happy — Sam?"  asked 
Carin. 

"No — o,  I  can't  say  he  does  quite.  But  he's 
something  better  than  happy.  He  goes  around 
with  a  strange  look  on  his  face,  as  if  his  own 
thoughts  interested  him  more  than  anything  else. 
He'll  hardly  talk  with  me  at  all.  I'd  think  that 
he  disliked  me,  only  I  know  better.  He's 
ashamed  for  his  family  and  he  won't  intrude  on 
me.  That's  what  he's  thinking.  At  first  I  tried 
to  make  him  feel  differently,  but  then  I  saw  I 
was  bothering  him,  and  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  let  him  alone.  I  reckon  he  knows  I'll  never 
go  back  on  him." 


2o6  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"And  he  hasn't  an  idea  where  his  people  are?" 

"Not  an  idea." 

"If  they  were  going  West  why  didn't  they 
take  the  train  here  at  Lee?  What  made  them  go 
wandering  away  in  the  mountains?" 

"Well,  I've  talked  with  Mr.  McBirney  about 
that,  and  he  says  Mr.  Disbrow  was  a  mountain 
man  born  and  bred,  although  he's  been  living 
in  town  the  last  few  years,  and  he  says  no  moun- 
tain man  would  go  off  and  leave  his  chickens  and 
cow  and  dogs  behind  him.  It  wouldn't  so  much 
as  occur  to  him  to  do  it.  Then,  too,  he  thinks 
Mr.  Disbrow  didn't  dare  try  to  take  the  train  at 
Lee.  If  the  people  had  seen  him  going  they 
would  have  stopped  him.  Besides  that,  I  don't 
believe  Mrs.  Disbrow  would  be  willing  to  go 
on  the  train  where  everybody  could  see  and  stare 
at  her.  You  know  she  can't  bear  to  be  looked 
at.  I  suppose  it's  because  she's  so  like  a  ghost. 
Why,  her  clothes  just  hang  about  her  like  the 
rags  on  a  scarecrow,  and  her  face  is  the  color 
of  dough  and  all  fallen  in.  It's  a  fact;  everyone 
would  turn  to  look  at  her.  She  doesn't  look  as 
if  she  had  lived  in  the  world  at  all — and  she 
hasn't  for  a  good  many  years." 

"Well,  how  do  you  account  for  Sam?    How 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  207 

could  a  boy  like  that  come  from  such  a  family?" 

"Mr.  Summers  says  that  there's  no  inheritance 
for  souls — that  every  soul  comes  fresh  from  the 
hand  of  God.  Sam's  soul  is  too  brave  to  be  over- 
come by  his  surroundings.  That's  all  I  can 
make  out  of  it." 

Carin  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"Well,  maybe  that's  so.  Yet  it  seems  to  me 
there's  more  of  a  mystery  to  it  than  that.  Your 
Aunt  Adnah  may  think  he's  a  'Disbrow  boy,' 
but  he  certainly  doesn't  seem  like  it  to  me." 

They  were  turning  in  at  the  gate  of  The  Shoals 
now,  and  Annie  Laurie  looked  about  her  with 
delight.  Gardeners  were  busy  all  over  the 
place;  fresh  awnings  of  orange  and  black  had 
been  hung  from  the  many  windows;  yellow 
tulips  appeared  in  flaming  companies  along  the 
walks  and  about  the  house.  Chairs  and  tables 
of  brown  rattan  were  on  the  porches;  swinging 
couches  heaped  with  pillows  invited  one  to  take 
one's  ease;  books  and  magazines  were  placed 
temptingly  at  hand.  Annie  Laurie  thought 
what  a  contrast  all  this  was  to  her  own  meager 
home,  and  gave  a  sharp  little  sigh.  But  she  was 
determined  to  enjoy  herself  without  stint  for 
these  two  bright  days. 


2o8  AJNNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

And  this,  indeed,  was  easy  to  do.  Luncheon 
was  served  to  the  girls  in  Carin's  studio,  and 
there  for  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  the 
two  read,  sang  and  laughed  together.  Carin 
had  at  least  three  books  which  Annie  Laurie 
"simply  must  read";  and  Annie  Laurie  was  in- 
sistent that  Carin  should  do  some  painting,  "be- 
ginning at  the  very  beginning,"  and  show  her 
how  it  was  done. 

"Then  I'll  paint  you,"  declared  Carin,  and 
made  her  friend  stand,  straight  and  tall  before 
a  draping  of  red-brown  velvet  which  was  just 
a  shade  browner  than  Annie  Laurie's  hair. 

"But  I  ought  to  be  a  fine  artist  to  do  you  jus- 
tice," Carin  protested,  "not  just  a  silly  niggling 
beginner.  Just  you  wait,  Annie  Laurie!  Some 
day  you  are  going  to  be  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
by  that  time  I  hope  to  know  enough  to  paint 
you  the  way  you  ought  to  be." 

Then  there  was  a  walk  in  the  late  afternoon, 
and  tea  with  Mrs.  Kitchell  at  the  Industries, 
and  then  the  stroll  back  in  the  lilac-tinted 
air,  and  the  fun  of  dressing  together  for  dinner. 

Annie  Laurie  could  hardly  make  her  own 
toilet  for  watching  Carin,  as  she  came  all  fresh 
from   her  bath,   in   her  dainty  garments,   and 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  209 

slipped  into  her  simple,  exquisite  frock  of  cling- 
ing white  silk.  A  maid  came  to  tie  her  corn-col- 
ored scarf,  and  to  wind  the  broad  corn-colored 
ribbon  about  her  wonderful  hair,  which  was 
almost  the  same  color,  only  full  of  light  and 
shine  as  no  ribbon  ever  could  be.  Her  slender 
feet  were  in  white,  too,  and  about  her  neck  was 
a  necklace  of  clouded  amber  beads. 

"What  a  love  you  are,"  cried  Annie  Laurie. 

"No  more  a  love  than  you  are  yourself,"  re- 
torted Carin.    "Look!" 

She  swung  her  friend  around  to  face  the 
cheval  glass,  and  Annie  Laurie  saw  her  own  tall, 
almost  haughty,  young  figure  mirrored  there,  in 
its  plain,  well  fitting  gown  of  black.  She  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  own  pretty  slippers  with  their 
smart  bows,  of  her  straight  fair  neck — Carin 
had  forbidden  her  to  wear  her  net  yoke — and 
of  her  red-brown  hair  wound  around  and  around 
her  head. 

"Talk  about  loves!"  said  Carin,  and  led  her 
friend  down  to  the  drawing  room.  There  were 
a  number  of  persons  there,  it  seemed,  and  Annie 
Laurie  had  a  confused  moment  as  she  was  pre- 
sented to  them.  She  had  not  been  in  this  room 
before — at  most  had  glimpsed  it  from  the  cor- 


2IO  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

ridor.  Now  that  she  was  in  it,  with  the  many 
candles  burning  in  their  sconces,  the  flowers 
everywhere  in  vases  little  and  great,  with  the 
delicate  pinks  and  yellows  of  the  draperies  and 
furniture  making  an  effect  like  a  wonderful 
manufactured  flower  garden  all  about  her,  she 
had  a  sick  feeling  of  shyness  and  almost  wished 
that  she  had  not  accepted  Mrs.  Carson's  invita- 
tion. 

"But  that's  being  cowardly,"  she  told  herself 
sharply.  "And  I'm  not  afraid  of  these  people, 
really.  They're  all  kind  and  good.  What  I'm 
afraid  of  is  merely  furniture!  Now,  who  would 
be  afraid  of  wood  and  cloth  and  brass!  Silly 
goose!" 

Some  one — a  pleasant-faced  gentleman  with 
white  hair — offered  his  arm  to  the  "silly  goose," 
and  the  next  moment  they  were  all  making  their 
way  to  the  dining  room.  It  was  wonderful 
there,  too.  The  lights  seemed  to  be  picked  up 
by  the  silver  and  the  crystal  and  to  be  thrown 
back  in  little  sparks  at  Annie  Laurie's  dazzled 
eyes.  There  was  a  bright,  hurried  talking  all 
about  her;  a  talking  she  could  not  quite  follow. 
But  she  had  got  that  new  idea  in  her  head,  that 
she  was  not  to  be  afraid  of  things  like  silver  and 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  211 

glass  and  linen,  and  that  certainly  no  reasonable 
person  could  fear  kind  friends,  and  so,  in  a  min- 
ute or  two,  her  shyness  passed,  and  she  was  her- 
self again. 

There  were  delicious  things  passed  her  to  eat, 
and  Annie  Laurie  wondered  what  they  really 
could  be  and  why  they  tasted  different  from 
anything  she  ever  had  eaten  before  The  gentle- 
man who  had  taken  her  out  to  dinner  was  very 
kind,  and  talked  to  her  about  her  lessons,  and 
the  early  coming  of  the  spring,  and  how  he  had 
not  been  in  those  parts  previously,  and  how 
much  he  liked  it,  and  how  he  wished  he  did  not 
have  to  go  back  to  Town.  By  Town,  Annie  Lau- 
rie discovered  that  he  meant  New  York. 

Then,  presently,  the  conversation  died  down, 
and  everyone  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  lady 
who  sat  at  Mr.  Carson's  right.  Her  name,  it 
seemed,  was  Miss  Borrow,  and  she  was  known, 
as  Mrs.  Carson  explained,  over  the  mountams 
as  "the  doll  lady."  She  had  made  a  great  study 
of  the  mountain  country,  its  flowers  and  trees, 
its  little  wild,  harmless  creatures,  furred  and 
feathered,  and  its  lonely,  quiet  people.  Some- 
times she  traveled  for  months  in  a  wagon,  sleep- 
ing in  a  mountain  cabin  or  in  her  wagon  as  the 


212  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

case  might  be,  eating  at  the  simple,  hospitable 
tables  of  the  mountaineers,  or  cooking  by  the 
roadside.  And  because  she  was  simple  and 
earnest  and  truly,  truly,  a  friend  to  all  the  world, 
she  had  been  permitted  to  enter  the  hearts  of  the 
people  and  they  had  learned  to  trust  her  and 
to  speak  out  to  her  almost  as  freely  as  they 
would  to  one  of  themselves. 

"But  please  tell  us  why  you  are  called  the 
'doll  lady,'  Miss  Borrow,"  said  Carin.  "I  think 
I  know,  but  I  would  so  love  it  if  you  would  ex- 
plain to  Annie  Laurie,  ma'am." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Borrow,  turning  her  dark, 
rather  sad  eyes  upon  Annie  Laurie,  "it  was  this 
way.  I  had  not  traveled  far  in  the  lonely,  silent 
country  that  lies  back  among  the  mountains,  be- 
fore I  discovered  that  the  saddest  thing  about  it 
all  was  the  children — the  little  children  who 
had  nothing  to  look  forward  to,  and  who  did 
not  know  how  to  laugh  in  the  happy,  free  way 
that  children  should.  They  got  into  bad  and 
silly  ways  because  there  was  nothing  for  them 
to  do.  So  I  fell  to  wondering  how  I  could  help 
them  enjoy  themselves,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
hadn't  to  wonder  very  long,  for  almost  imme- 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  213 

diately  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  give  them 
toys. 

"I  decided  that  I  would  take  the  boys  good 
knives,  so  that  they  could  make  things,  and 
marbles  and  balls,  so  that  they  might  have 
games;  and  to  the  girls  I  would  take  dolls.  I 
have  gone  out  from  my  starting  point  with  hun- 
dreds of  the  dearest,  most  delightful  dollies  you 
could  think  of,  tucked  away  in  my  wagon.  I 
have  even  had  to  have  a  second  wagon  to  start 
with,  because  of  the  many  things  I  was  carry- 
ing along.  At  first  there  would  be  no  need  to 
give  these  things  at  the  houses  at  which  I  stayed 
— the  houses  nearer  the  towns.  But  as  I  went 
on  and  on,  over  this  mountain,  and  down  into 
that  valley  and  up  over  the  next  mountain,  I 
would  come  on  the  people  who  lived  in  the  hol- 
low land. 

"They  had  few  friends,  or  none.  They  went 
nowhere.  They  had  nothing  to  do,  except 
scratch  the  ground  for  a  little  food.  One  day 
was  like  another;  and  in  the  faces  of  the  children 
was  a  look  like  that  to  be  seen  in  the  face  of  a 
dog — a  look  of  terrible  wistfulness,  as  if  there 
was  that  in  the  soul  which  never  could  be  ex- 
pressed.   To  these  children  I  brought  my  gifts. 


214  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

The  boys  were  glad  of  the  knives  and  marbles 
and  balls;  but  nothing  like  so  glad  as  the  girls 
were  of  the  dolls.  Many  and  many  of  them 
never  had  seen  a  doll  at  all.  Yet  never  once  did 
I  have  to  tell  them  what  they  were  for.  They 
simply  reached  out  their  arms  and  took  them, 
and  hugged  them  up  to  them — not  before  peo- 
ple, understand,  but  as  soon  as  ever  they 
were  alone. 

"Some  of  these  lonely  little  girls  had  hardly 
known  what  it  was  to  be  kissed,  and  they 
would  have  been  ashamed  to  throw  their 
arms  around  their  mother's  necks  and  hug 
and  kiss  them;  but  when  they  got  alone 
with  dolly — their  own,  own  dolly — they  kissed 
and  hugged  it  as  if  they  had  been  starved  for 
want  of  things  like  that.  Then  when  I  could 
take  along  some  extra  things,  so  that  they  could 
really  change  the  doll's  clothes,  and  wash  and 
iron  for  their  pets,  then,  at  last,  they  really  had 
something  to  do.  They  seemed  to  come  to  life 
— not  the  dolls,  but  the  little  mothers.  Perhaps 
the  dolls  did,  too.  I'm  not  sure.  They  were 
loved  enough  to  make  them." 

"Oh,  Miss  Borrow,"  cried  Mrs.  Carson,  "you 


"THE  DOLL  LADY"  215 

lucky,  lucky  woman,  to  be  able  to  think  of  such 
a  lovely  thing  and  to  carry  it  out!" 

"Lucky  is  that  lucky  does,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman beside  Annie  Laurie,  twisting  an  old 
saying  to  suit  his  purposes. 

"Well,"  said  Carin  across  the  table,  under 
cover  of  the  conversation,  "that's  why  she's  called 
the  'doll  lady,'  Annie  Laurie.  Isn't  it  beauti- 
ful?" 

"Beautiful,"  replied  the  other.  "And — and 
why  couldn't  we  help  get  some  of  the  dolls  ready, 
Carin?  And  my  aunts — if  I  could  get  them  to 
working  on  those  dolls,  perhaps  they  wouldn't 
be  worrying  and  wondering  so  much." 

Mr.  Carson  overheard  her  remark,  though  it 
was  intended  only  for  Carin. 

"Excellent  and  sensible,  Annie  Laurie,"  he 
said  in  his  light  way — that  way  which  meant  so 
much  yet  seemed  to  mean  so  little.  "You  have 
said  a  wise  thing.  I  believe  the  Misses  Pace  are 
to  honor  us  with  their  presence  at  dinner  to- 
morrow, are  they  not,  Lucy?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Carson,  "I  am  glad  to 
be  able  to  say  that  they  are." 

"We  will  try  then,  as  you  say,  my  dear  An- 
nie .Laurie,  to  help  the  aunts  find  a  new  and  in- 


2i6  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

teresting  occupation.  We  will  give  them — 
some  dolls  to  play  with,"  smiled  Mr.  Carson. 
For  he  knew,  and  Annie  Laurie  knew,  that 
the  poor  fretted  old  ladies  needed  them  as  much 
as  any  heart-starved  mountain  child. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  LONG  RED  ROAD 

There  was  music  after  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Car- 
son asked  Annie  Laurie  to  sing.  It  was  a  great 
moment  in  its  way — that  in  which  the  shy  girl 
with  the  oriole's  voice  went  out  before  all  the 
company  to  sing  to  Mrs.  Carson's  accompani- 
ment. For  a  second  or  two  she  thought  that  she 
really  could  not.  Then  it  came  over  her  that  it 
was  a  chance — that  she  who  had  lived  that  plain 
drab  life  was  standing  now  where  beautiful  col- 
ors played  about  her.  She  was,  she  said  to  her- 
self, in  the  heart  of  a  rainbow.  And  a  song  was 
a  song,  just  as  a  piece  of  furniture  was  a  piece 
of  furniture.  She  had  already  decided  that  she 
was  not  to  be  afraid  of  upholstering  and  silver 
and  fine  glass.  Very  well,  then,  why  should  she 
be  afraid  of  a  song,  since  she  really  had  a  voice 
and  could  sing?  Her  music  lessons  had  been 
stopped  since  her  father's  death,  but  Mrs.  Car- 
son often  invited  her  to  sing  with  her  in  the 

schoolroom  where  Carin's  piano  stood,  and  she 

217 


2i8  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

was  quite  aware  that  she  had  learned  more  from 
Mrs.  Carson  with  her  taste  and  her  beautiful, 
delicate  fashion  of  expression  than  she  could 
from  her  teacher.  So  now,  full,  free,  sad  and 
deep,  her  young  voice  arose  in: 

"All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart. 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art." 

She  thought  of  Sam  away  in  his  bare  room, 
bending  over  those  puzzling  accounts  of  hers, 
working  for  her  without  pay,  to  redeem  so  far 
as  he  could  his  father's  terrible  wrong.  And  as 
she  thought  of  him,  and  the  beauty  of  the  song 
opened  the  doors  of  her  heart,  it  seemed  as  if 
all  that  distrust  of  mankind  which  had  come  to 
her  so  bitterly  when  she  first  realized  the  great 
wrong  that  had  been  done  her,  went  drifting  out 
on  the  tide  of  song.  So  the  lovely  words  to  their 
noble  setting  poured  from  her  lips  with  a  sort 
of  splendor,  and  when  she  had  ceased,  and  had 
stood  for  a  moment,  motionless,  her  slender 
straight  body  tense  with  the  rapture  of  it,  she 
had  the  great  happiness  of  hearing  sincere  and 
enthusiastic  applause  break  from  all  the  com- 
pany in  the  drawing  room. 

Mrs.  Carson  and  Carin  were  hardly  less  happy 


THE  LONG  RED  ROAD  219 

than  she.  They  made  her  sing  again  and  again; 
then  Mrs.  Carson  forbade  more. 

"We'll  not  have  our  singing  bird  excited  so 
that  she'll  lose  her  sleep  the  first  night  she  stays 
under  this  roof,"  she  said.  And  then  she  her- 
self, at  the  solicitation  of  her  guests,  sang  some 
of  those  wonderful  songs  of  hers.  Annie  Laurie 
could  not  understand  the  words,  for  they  were 
now  in  one  tongue  and  now  another;  but  as  the 
music  rose  and  fell,  shifting  in  its  beauty  as  a 
sunset  shifts  it?  colors,  or  as  water  ripples  in  the 
wind,  a  great  happiness  flooded  her.  She  sat 
thrilling  to  it,  moved  to  the  core  of  her  being 
by  its  rhythm,  and  Mrs.  Carson,  arising  from  the 
piano,  came  straight  to  her. 

"Annie  Laurie  Pace,"  she  said  in  her  charm- 
ing way,  "I  could  feel  all  the  strings  of  the 
piano  vibrating  again  in  you.  You  are  a  true 
musician.  Sometime  you  and  I  will  sit  together 
night  after  night  and  listen  to  opera." 

"Oh!"  Annie  Laurie  gasped.  "It  —  it 
couldn't  be!" 

"It  shall  be,"  smiled  Mrs.  Carson.  "Wait, 
child.     Wait  just  a  little  while." 

So,  with  a  head  full  of  new,  rich  ideas,  the 
girl  lay  down  to  sleep  that  night  in  the  "poppy 


220  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

room,"  as  the  little  bedroom  opening  off  Carin's 
was  called.  Poppies  decorated  the  wall,  were 
embroidered  on  the  linen  covers  to  dresser,  chairs 
and  bed,  and  the  spirit  of  poppies,  sleep,  hovered 
lightly  over  the  room. 

The  next  day  dawned  beautifully — one  of 
those  Sundays  which  seem  to  have  the  very 
breath  of  holiness  in  them.  Annie  Laurie  went 
with  the  Carsons  to  the  Episcopal  Church,  and 
then  they  all  drove  over  to  the  Methodist 
Church  for  the  aunts.  They  could  see  the  two, 
prim  and  starched,  awaiting  them  on  the  high 
church  steps,  and  Mr.  Carson  leaped  from  the 
carriage  to  assist  the  ladies  down  and  to  help 
them  into  his  vehicle.  Annie  Laurie  couldn't 
help  giving  an  affectionate  chuckle  at  the 
labored  propriety  of  their  remarks.  They  had 
on  their  best  dresses  and  they  were  determined 
to  use  their  best  language.  But  Mrs.  Carson 
gave  no  sign  that  she  perceived  their  stiffness. 
She  chatted  on  in  that  winning  way  of  hers,  till 
even  the  proud  and  difficult  Aunt  Adnah  felt  at 
ease. 

At  dinner  the  conversation  turned  upon  the 
"doll  lady,"  and  Mr.  Carson  had  an  idea. 


THE  LONG  RED  ROAD  221 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  "we'll  hike  itl 
We'll  trek  it!    We'll  mush-mush!" 

"Papa,"  Carin  protested,  "  what  ever  do  you 
mean?" 

"Mean?  I  mean  we'll  follow  the  long  red 
road,  every  one  of  us.  Your  mother,  Carin,  and 
your  friends  Annie  Laurie  and  Azalea,  and  Miss 
Zillah  and  Miss  Adnah.  We'll  take  to  the  high 
road — in  mountain  wagons — and  we'll  go  gyp- 
sying.  It's  the  spring  vacation — or  we  can  make 
it  so  if  we  have  a  mind.  What  do  you  say.  Miss 
Parkhurst?  Shall  we  call  it  vacation?  And  will 
you  go  with  us  over  the  mountains?" 

"I'll  call  it  vacation  if  you  please,  sir,"  smiled 
Helena  Parkhurst.  "But  if  I  have  any  time 
away  from  my  duties,  I'd  love  to  go  home  to  my 
mother.    She's  very  lonely  without  me." 

"You  shall,  then.  Of  course  she's  lonely  with- 
out you.  But  what  do  you  say,  ladies?"  he 
asked,  turning  to  Annie  Laurie's  aunts. 

Miss  Adnah  wiped  her  lips  carefully  before 
replying. 

"You  are  very  kind  indeed,  sir,  but  I  never 
have  done-such  a  thing  in  my  life,  though  I  must 
say  that  I  have  rather  envied  people  when  I 
saw  them  starting  off  on  such  an  expedition." 


222  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Of  course  you  have  envied  them,  and  you 
shall  do  so  no  longer.  You  shall  go  and  know 
the  joys  they  have  known.  As  for  the  dairy,  Sam 
will  look  after  that.  If  necessary  he  can  have 
one  of  my  men  to  help  him.  You  are  pleased,  I 
hope,  MissZillah?" 

Miss  Zillah  turned  her  faded,  quiet  eyes  on 
him,  and  smiled  slowly. 

*'Mr.  Carson,"  she  said  "all  my  life  I  have 
slept  properly  under  a  roof.  I  have  done  my 
duty  as  I  saw  it  to  do.  I  have  conducted  my- 
self, I  hope,  in  a  ladylike  and  discreet  manner, 
but — "  she  hesitated. 

"But  what,  madam?" 

"But  from  childhood  I  have  longed  to  cook 
my  meal  in  a  pot  over  a  camp  fire  and  to  sleep 
under  the  pines." 

Everybody  laughed. 

"What's  more,"  w^ent  on  Miss  Zillah,  show- 
ing the  shadow  of  a  dimple  in  her  withered 
cheek,  "I  feel  that  I  would  love  to  run  about  in 
a  short  skirt  and  tie  a  turban  about  my  head." 

"Delightful!  Delightful,"  declared  Mr.  Car- 
son.   "We'll  go  by  the  middle  of  this  week." 

"But  Mr.  Carson,  ought  we?"  Miss  Adnah 
broke  in.    "The — the  expense — " 


THE  LONG  RED  ROAD  223 

"Expense,  madam?  There's  no  expense.  All 
that  is  needed  is  time,  and  of  that  we  have  as 
much  as  anybody  living." 

He  held  up  a  hand  for  silence,  and  in  his  rich 
voice,  warm  with  an  almost  boyish  enthusiasm, 
he  repeated  a  poem  he  had  read  but  whose  author 
he  did  not  remember: 

"  'Beyond  the  East,  the  sunrise,  beyond  the  West, 

the  sea — 
And  East  or  West,  the  wander-thirst  will  never 

let  me  be. 
It  works  in  me  like  madness,  dear,  to  make  me 

say  good-bye, 
For  the  stars  call  and  the  sea  calls,  and  O!  the 

call  of  the  sky. 

"  'I  know  not  where  the  white  road  leads,  nor 

what  the  blue  hills  are. 
But  a  man  can  have  the  sun  for  a  friend,  and  for 

his  guide  a  star. 
And  there's  no  end  of  voyaging  v/hen  once  the 

voice  is  heard, 
For  the  river  calls  and  the  road  calls,  and  O!  the 

call  of  the  bird. 

*'  'Yonder  the  long  horizon  lies,  and  there  by 
night  or  day. 


224  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

The  old  ships  draw  to  home  again,  the  young 

ships  sail  away, 
And  come  I  may,  but  go  I  must,  and  if  you  ask 

me  why, 
You  may  put  the  blame  on  the  stars  and  sun,  and 

the  white  road  and  the  sky.' 

"Only  it's  the  red  road  with  us,  ladies — the 
long  red  road,  and  it  winds  up  the  mountains, 
and  down  the  mountains,  and  we'll  follow  it  till 
we  long  for  home  again." 

"Oh,"  whispered  Annie  Laurie  to  Carin  as 
they  walked  from  the  dining  room  together, 
"how  fine  it  will  be  to  get  the  poor  aunts  away 
from  that  house  where  they  worry  and  search, 
and  search  and  worry!" 

"And  don't  you  see,"  returned  Carin,  "that 
papa  is  really  having  in  the  back  of  his  mind  the 
idea  that  he  may  run  across  the  Disbrows?  He 
thinks  that,  after  all,  Mr.  Disbrow  won't  quite 
dare  spend  that  money — at  least  not  much  of  it. 
He  could  talk  about  going  West  but  he  hasn't 
really  the  courage  to  go.  He'll  drive  around  in 
the  mountains,  shooting  a  little,  and  grazing  his 
cow  and  horses,  and  eating  up  the  chickens. 


THE  LONG  RED  ROAD  225 

Papa  says  that's  the  way  a  man  with  his  rearing 
would  do,  probably.  So  we're  to  take  to  all 
sorts  of  byroads  and  odd  ways  in  the  hope  of 
finding  them." 

"Really?"  said  Annie  Laurie.  "But— Oh, 
Carin,  if  we  found  them!  What  a  humiliation 
for  them!" 

"Well,  so  far  as  Mr.  Disbrow  is  concerned,  I 
think  he  has  some  humiliation  coming  to  him," 
said  Carin  sharply. 

Annie  Laurie  hated  to  tell  Sam  they  were 
going  to  the  mountains.  She  feared  he  would 
read  in  her  eyes  her  knowledge  of  this  second 
intention — this  hope  of  finding  the  fugitives. 
Perhaps  he  did.  He  was  very  silent  these  days, 
and  he  worked  furiously.  Annie  Laurie  tried 
to  get  him  to  sit  with  them  evenings,  but  he 
would  not.  His  old-time  light-heartedness,  pre- 
served under  so  many  difficulties,  seemed  to 
have  passed  entirely.  Yet  he  was  not  sullen 
nor  even  sad — only  very  grave.  He  was  indeed 
fighting  his  battle,  and  it  was  not  an  easy  one. 

But  little  by  little  he  could  see — everyone 
could  see — that  he  was  winning  the  respect  of 
the  townspeople.     Men  went  out  of  their  way 


226  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

to  speak  to  him  and  to  ask  him  how  he  was  get- 
ting on  in  his  new  business  and  to  say  they'd  be 
glad  to  help  him  out  if  he  got  in  any  difficulty. 
Some  of  the  nicest  women  in  Lee  invited  him  to 
their  homes;  but  to  all  such  invitations  Sam 
sent  a  respectful  refusal.  He  seemed  determined 
to  keep  to  himself  until  he  had  won  his  right 
to  enter  other  men's  doors  as  an  honest  boy,  the 
son  of  an  honest  man. 

He  helped  with  the  preparations  for  the  moun- 
tain, saying  nothing  of  his  shamed  and  tortured 
thought  that  his  friends  might  come  upon  his 
skulking  family.  Mr.  Carson  was  to  drive  his 
own  team,  and  Benjamin,  his  man,  vv^as  to  drive 
Annie  Laurie's  horses.  So,  on  a  perfumed  spring 
morning  the  little  caravan  set  off,  with  Mrs.  Car- 
son and  the  two  Misses  Pace  in  the  Carson 
wagon,  and  Carin  and  Azalea  in  Annie  Laurie's. 

Azalea  was  strangely  excited  by  the  idea  of 
the  journey,  though  she  tried  to  conceal  the  fact. 
She  could  not  forget  how  often  she  had  gone 
upon  such  long  journeys  in  those  wild,  curious 
days  when  she  was  a  "show  girl."  Those  days 
now  seemed  like  a  fantastic  dream.  She  felt  as 
if  she  always  had  been  Azalea  McBirney, 
wrapped  about  with  love  and  consideration;  and 


THE  LONG  RED  ROAD  227 

even  the  memory  of  her  poor  dead  little  mother 
was  like  a  gray  shadow.  True,  it  was  a  shadow 
which  arose  often  before  her  mental  vision,  but 
the  outlines  of  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Yet 
Azalea  loved  it.  She  could  not  think  of  that 
brave,  yet  broken  woman,  so  out  of  place  with 
that  sorry  crew  of  show  people,  without  a  throb 
of  love.  Death  had,  at  last,  seemed  the  only 
happiness  for  her,  and  Azalea  loved  to  think  of 
her  as  safe  and  at  rest  in  that  much-cared-for 
lowly  bed  of  hers  beneath  the  Pride  of  India 
tree  beside  Ma  McBirney's  door. 

And,  oh,  the  long  red  road!  How  it  wound 
up  the  hills  and  over  them.  What  valleys  it 
glimpsed,  what  rivers,  amber  brown  beneath  the 
trees,  what  spots  of  quietude  and  peace  beneath 
the  pines,  what  sunny  openings,  where  succulent 
odors  of  grass,  freshly  sprung,  came  to  the  trav- 
elers! And,  oh,  the  delight  of  sleeping  in  the 
hastily  spread  tents — which  were  really  no  more 
than  squares  of  canvas  stretched  on  pointed 
sticks — and  the  appetites  that  developed  for  the 
meals  cooked  over  the  coals  on  the  convenient 
tripod! 

Now  one  and  now  another  of  the  ladies  cooked 
the  meals,  and  they  vied  with  each  other  in  the 


228  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

mixing  of  stews.  They  grew  bold  and  tried 
things  they  never  had  heard  of,  but  which 
seasoned  with  mountain  air  and  tested  with 
mountain  appetites,  seemed  the  finest  of  discov- 
eries. And  the  day  and  the  night  were  sweet; 
the  wind  was  their  playful  companion;  the 
showers  were  their  friends;  the  sun  their  great 
protector;  the  moon  their  comforter  and  all  the 
stars  were  their  intimates. 

So  the  three  girls  grew  browner  and  brighter- 
eyed  each  day,  and  the  heart  in  each  of  them — 
even  Annie  Laurie's — was  light  as  down. 

But  not  a  hint  did  they  have  of  the  Disbrows. 
Though  they  plunged  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  mountains,  getting  far  beyond  the  towns, 
they  saw  nothing  of  them.  They  went  so  far 
that  they  came  at  last  upon  the  lonely,  sad-eyed 
people  whom  Miss  Borrow  had  described.  In 
their  miserable  cabins,  which  were  far  from 
weatherproof,  they  lived  their  curious,  solitary 
lives.  Their  faces  were  vacant  and  mournful; 
their  voices  like  the  soughing  of  wind  in  the 
trees.  They  walked  languidly,  and  there  was  a 
strange  and  repellent  pallor  in  their  faces.  Some- 
times they  sang  a  little,  sitting  before  their  doors 


THE  LONG  RED  ROAD  229 

in  the  moonlight,  and  their  voices  rose  and  fell 
with  a  curious  cadence.  The  monotony  of  their 
lives  rested  upon  them  like  a  deadly  spell,  per- 
mitting them  to  nurse  senseless  hates  and  ani- 
mosities, and  to  keep  up  foolish  family  feuds. 

Now  and  then  they  came  upon  a  desolate 
schoolhouse,  approached  by  little  winding  paths, 
over  which  bare-footed  children  had  run  for 
weary  miles.  For  they  prized  their  schooling 
beyond  all  words  to  express. 

"Whar  is  her  who  tells  us  how?"  one  little, 
sallow-faced  child  had  asked  when  she  had  run 
eleven  miles  to  the  schoolhouse  to  find  the 
teacher  absent.  They  heard  such  stories  of 
starved  minds  and  all  but  starved  bodies,  and  a 
deep  pity  awoke  in  their  hearts  for  these  people 
of  their  own  blood  and  of  an  inheritance  much 
like  their  own. 

"When  we  are  a  little  older,"  said  Azalea,  her 
eyes  shining  with  a  deep  purpose,  "we  will  come 
back  and  teach  them." 

"Yes,"  said  Annie  Laurie.  "We  will  teach 
them  to  read  and  to  sing." 

"To  read  and  to  sing  and  to  draw,"  said  Carin. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Carson,  laughingly  and 
yet  with  meaning.     "And  I'll  send  some  one 


230  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

along  to  help  with  such  trifles  as  arithmetic, 
geography,  grammar,  et  cetera,  and  incidentally 
I'll  foot  the  bills.     Is  it  a  bargain?" 
"It's  a  bargain,"  said  they  in  chorus. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Hi's    HOUN'    DAWG 

It  was  Saturday  and  Hi  Kitchell  and  Jim  Mc- 
Birney,  having  done  their  chores,  met  by  ap- 
pointment at  the  spring  under  the  tulip  trees 
where  Azalea  intended  to  build  her  bungalow 
when  she  became  very  rich. 

It  was  a  lovely  spot  and  they  threw  themselves 
down  in  perfect  content,  their  dogs  near  at  hand, 
and  looked  off  at  what  Hi  called  a  "purty  worl'." 

"It  jes'  seems  like  everything  worth  speakin' 
about  hed  come  my  way,"  sighed  Hi  contently. 
"You-all  remember  what  a  pore  little  forsaken 
cuss  I  was,  Jim,  when  me  and  'Zalie  came  drag- 
gin'  along  with  that  thar  show  of  Sisson's  a  year 
back  an'  more?" 

"  'Taint  more'n  a  year,  Hi.'* 

"Seems  like  a  century.    An'  no  sooner  hed  we 

laid  eyes  on  your  pa  and  ma  than  things  began 

to  go  right.    An'  now  look  at  us.     'Zalie's  like 

your  sister  and  gettin'  a  tip-top  education,  and  is 

ofif  ridin'  the  country  over  with  the  Carsons; 

231 


232  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

and  me  and  ma  hev  a  home  anybody  would  be 
proud  to  own,  and  that  thar  Industries  busi- 
ness is  lookin'  up  more'n  more  every  livelong 
day.  Why  we're  so  happy  we're  in  danger  of 
bustin'.  I  asked  ma  t'other  day  if  she  didn't  feel 
most  like  bustin',  and  she  said  she  did." 

''It's  a  good  place  to  live  here-abouts,"  agreed 
Jim.  "Pleasant  things  have  a  way  of  happenin' 
'round  here.  If  it  wa'n't  for  that  dod-gasted 
hard  luck  of  Annie  Laurie's,  I'd  think  this  was 
w^here  the  nicest  folks  in  creation  lived.  But 
some  one  done  her  a  mean,  low-down  trick." 

"It  was  that  scowlin',  grumblin'  Disbrow," 
averred  Hi.  "I  know  it.  Ma  says  she  feels  it 
in  her  bones,  and  so  do  I,  and  Kitchell  bones  is 
simply  great  for  givin'  pointers.  I  say,  what's 
the  use  in  you  and  me  loafin'  'round  here  while 
that  mis'able,  sneakin'  houn'  gets  off  with  Annie 
Laurie's  money?  Ain't  we  her  friends  and  as 
nigh  kin  as  she's  got?  What  say  to  you  and  me 
hikin'  out  after  that  thar  Disbrow  an'  findin' 
him  and  bringin'  him  back  to  justice?" 

Hi's  sharp  black  eyes  sparkled  with  the  high 
intent  of  protecting  the  friendless.  The  bright 
light  of  adventure  shone  round  about  him,  and 
Jim  thrilled  to  it.    Here  was  a  friend  worth  hav- 


HI'S  HOUN'  DAWG  233 

ing — a  friend  like  those  knights  of  old  of  whom 
Azalea  read  to  him,  one  who  would  go  out  and 
conquer.  Jim  stared  ofif  across  the  purple  val- 
ley, rejoicing  in  his  good  fortune  at  living  in 
days  when  there  was  still  a  man's  work  to  do  in 
the  world. 

"Hi,"  he  breathed  after  a  time,  "I'm  with 
you." 

"Then,"  said  Hi,  with  something  of  the  air 
of  an  Arctic  explorer  about  to  embark  on  his 
hazardous  voyage,  "we  must  make  ready.  Thar's 
no  use  in  waitin'  around  here,  dreamin'  and 
sighin'  the  way  the  rest  of  the  town  is  doin'. 
Let's  get  our  grub  together  and  be  on  our  way." 

"I  wish  I  could  take  Peter,"  said  Jim  wist- 
fully. Peter  was  his  hound.  "But  he's  got  such 
a  sore  foot  I  don't  dast.  Ma,  she  doctors  it  up 
every  morning  and  she  says  we'll  have  to  be 
mighty  careful  or  we  won't  have  no  dog  at  all — 
he'll  die  from  blood  poisonin'." 

"It's  too  bad,"  agreed  Hi,  "but  we-all  ken  take 
Bike."  Bike,  Hi's  hound,  wagged  his  tail  in 
recognition  of  the  attention  paid  him. 

"It  will  make  me  feel  awful  bad  for  you  to 
take  Bike  and  me  to  be  goin'  along  without  no 
dog  at  all,"  mused  Jim. 


234  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

There  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  Hi's  chivalry 
to-day. 

"Well  then,  by  gum,  I  won't  take  Bike,"  he 
declared,  his  face  lighting  with  the  glow  of 
sacrifice.    Jim  was  not  unappreciative. 

"Honest,  Hi!" 

"Honest." 

"Well  then,  let's  send  the  dogs  home  and  we 
can  go  right  on  from  here.  We  don't  need  no 
provisions.     I've  got  some  money — " 

"So  have  I." 

"What's  the  use  of  delayin'  then.  Let's  set 
off." 

So  the  dogs  were  commanded  to  go  to  their 
respective  homes,  and  with  lowered  tails  and 
drooping  ears,  they  obeyed.  Bike  writhed  along 
on  his  belly,  beating  the  ground  with  his  tail. 
He  actually  shed  tears  of  humiliation  and  de- 
pression, but  Peter,  more  absorbed  with  the  dis- 
comfort in  his  foot,  limped  lamely  and  obedi- 
ently on  his  way  toward  home. 

"Pore  houn's,"  sighed  Hi,  "they  sure  are  cast 
down." 

"Ain't  it  just  their  luck,"  Jim  sympathized. 
"Pore  critters." 

Both  boys  were  talking  their  worst  and  en- 


HI'S  HOUN'  DAWG  235 

joying  it.  This  spang-up  grammar  was  well 
enough  to  catch  on  to  when  a  fellow  was  tally- 
ing with  Mrs.  Carson,  or  even  to  Azalea,  but 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  letting  down  and  en- 
joying oneself  when  the  ladies  were  out  of  the 
way.    Men  must  be  men  now  and  then. 

So,  in  all  the  freemasonry  of  their  kind,  the 
two  set  ofif  across  the  mountain.  Neither  one 
would  have  confessed  that  the  "wander-thirst" 
was  on  them  too.  But  the  truth  was,  Mr.  Car- 
son had  set  a  most  infectious  example.  Moun- 
tain folks  have  pretty  hard  work  staying  at  home. 
The  roads  call,  and  they  long  to  be  up  and  away. 
It  always  seems  as  if  something  wonderful  must 
be  waiting  for  them  over  the  next  hill.  Jim  and 
Hi  had  the  gypsy  mood  on  them  this  day.  They 
actually  ran  for  a  long  time,  taking  the  cut-offs 
that  led  them  over  the  spur  of  the  mountain  to 
Mulberry  Valley,  which  lay  "over-yon"  and 
which  they  had  seldom  visited,  and  then  always 
under  the  guidance  of  some  grown  person  who 
insisted  on  pushing  them  along  and  getting  home 
again. 

Getting  home  seemed  to  them  just  now  as  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  that  a  fellow  would  care 
to  do.    What  was  the  use  in  getting  home  when 


236  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

a  person  could  run  along  paths  bordered  with 
trim  huckleberry  bushes,  or  rest  on  a  stone  where 
lichen  had  woven  a  pale  green  lace?  There 
were  partridge  berries  peeping  up  between  dark 
green  leaves;  here  was  tender  wintergreen; 
yonder  the  "sweet  buds"  were  coming  out, 
weighting  the  air  with  their  fruity  odor.  Dear 
me,  why  should  anybody  go  home? 

There  was  an  eagle  hanging  over  the  valley, 
strong,  and  calm,  and  sure.  Three  buzzards  sat 
on  a  blasted  pine  and  shook  their  evil  heads;  a 
king  snake  gave  them  a  chase  and  got  away  from 
them  in  spite  of  their  best  endeavors.  And  still 
the  little  path  went  on  and  on.  It  passed  by  a 
deserted  house,  where  the  bats  hung  from  the 
roof.  It  wound  by  wooded  hills  and  fields  that 
once  had  been  tilled,  but  had  perhaps  proved 
too  unfertile,  and  so  been  left;  it  crept  on  up  the 
farther  mountain, — the  unknown  mountain — 
and  still  coaxed,  and  lured,  and  solicited;  and 
the  boys  kept  on. 

Their  brown,  dusty  feet  had  grown  weary  and 
their  throats  were  dry  when  at  length  they  came 
upon  a  cabin.  They  weren't  sure  at  first  whether 
it  was  lived  in  or  not.  The  heavy  shutters — 
there  were  no  windows — were  closed,  but  the 


HI'S  HOUN'  DAWG  237 

door  stood  slightly  ajar.  The  chimney,  which 
was  made  of  field  stone  held  together  with  the 
red  clay  of  the  field,  blossomed  like  a  garden 
with  ferns  and  vines.  The  yard  was  bare  of 
grass,  but  the  old  stone  wall  round  about  it  was 
overgrown  with  green  things,  though  it  was  still 
so  early  in  the  year,  and  the  myrtle  and  mimosa 
showed  their  green  beside  that  of  the  laurel  and 
rhododendron.  There  w^as  a  small  well  with  a 
sweep,  and  on  the  bench  lay  a  broken  gourd 
which  had  been  used  as  a  drinking  cup.  But 
over  the  place  was  the  deepest  silence,  save  for 
one  early  bee  which  made  a  cheerful  buzzing, 
and  seemed  to  fairly  boom,  so  still  was  the  place. 

'T  say,"  whispered  Hi,  "don't  it  look  spooky?" 

"Maybe  a  hermit  lives  here,"  Jim  suggested. 

"Or  a  skelington,"  added  Hi. 

It  was  Hi  who  had  the  courage  to  push  back 
the  warped  door  and  look  in.  Jim  was  a  few 
feet  behind  him  and  he  never  forgot  the  yell  of 
horror  that  came  from  Hi's  throat,  a  yell  that 
had  fear  in  it,  fear  for  the  next  second's  happen- 
ing. Jim  heard  a  swishing  and  a  hissing,  and  he 
knew.  Neither  formed  the  word  ^Wattlers!"  on 
their  frozen  tongues.  Hi  tried  to  leap  back- 
ward and  fell  over  a  stub  of  a  bush  and  lay 


238  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

prone.  Jim  seized  his  arm  and  dragged  him 
along  for  a  dozen  feet,  and  even  in  the  rush  they 
could  hear  their  hearts  beating  frantically.  That 
swishing  and  hissing  kept  up.  It  seemed  to 
grow  louder.  Hi  turned  himself  and  got  on  his 
feet  like  a  monkey.  They  both  ran  without  look- 
ing behind.  And  after  they  had  started  and  had 
got  away  from  the  real  danger,  they  began  to 
fear  imaginary  evils.  Panic  was  on  them.  With 
their  blistered  bare  feet  they  sped  on  and  on, 
taking  no  note  of  where  they  were  going.  Their 
throats,  which  had  been  dry  to  start  with,  be- 
came like  paper.  Their  eyes  bulged  from  their 
heads.  They  had  started  out  great  heroes,  but 
they  had  undergone  a  transformation  and  were 
two  terribly  frightened  and  tired  little  boys. 

Even  as  they  sank  exhausted  beneath  a  pine 
tree  they  looked  about  them  shudderingly  for 
snakes,  but  seeing  none  they  lay  there  and  gasped, 
their  hearts  straining  in  their  sides.  Then,  as 
their  panting  ceased,  a  soft  noise  struck  their 
ears.  It  sounded  very  familiar,  and  yet  in 
their  utter  bewilderment  they  could  not  at  first 
tell  what  it  was.  The  meaning  penetrated  first 
to  Jim. 

"A  spring,"  he  whispered.    "A  spring!" 


HI'S  HOUN'  DAWG  239 

They  made  their  way  toward  it,  dragging 
their  feet  like  weary  dogs,  and  when  they  saw  it, 
clear,  cold  and  beautiful,  gushing  from  the 
ground  amid  wild  forget-me-nots,  they  sank  on 
their  knees  and  drank  long.  After  that  they 
lay  still,  staring  at  the  sky.  The  world  swam 
before  them  dreamily,  the  clouds  rocked  back 
and  forth;  they  slept. 

When  they  awoke  it  was  dark.  It  was  not  just 
partly  dark  as  it  is  most  nights  of  the  year.  No, 
it  was  black.  They  might  have  been  shut  up  in 
a  black  velvet  box  or  lost  in  a  large  bottle  of 
black  ink.  There  was  nothing  above,  below, 
around,  so  far  as  their  sense  could  inform  them. 
It  was  Jim  who  had  opened  his  eyes  first.  At 
least,  he  thought  he  had  opened  them,  but  when 
he  found  he  could  see  nothing  at  all  he  had  his 
doubts  about  having  done  it.  He  felt  of  his 
eyelids.  Yes,  they  were  open,  beyond  doubt. 
Had  he  then  suddenly  gone  blind?  He  couldn't 
imagine  why  he  should,  and  yet,  judging  from 
his  present  plight,  it  seemed  probable. 

"Hi!"  he  shouted,  as  if  Hi  were  on  the  other 
side  of  a  forty-acre  lot. 

Hi's  voice  answered  close  at  hand,  sleepily. 

"Yep!" 


240  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Hi,  I  believe  I've  gone  blind.  I  can't  see 
nothing — not  a  blamed  thing." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"I  can't  neither,"  cried  Hi.  "Maybe  we're 
both  blind." 

"It's  being  so  hungry,  I  reckon,"  said  Jim. 
"Don't  you  think  a  fellah  could  get  so  run  down 
from  eatin'  nothing  that  he'd  go  blind?" 

"I  reckon  he  might,"  sighed  Hi. 

Silence  fell  again.  They  could  hear  the  need- 
les as  they  fell  from  the  trees,  the  low  whisper- 
ing of  the  spring,  and  the  far-away  sound  of 
wind  or  rain,  they  were  not  sure  which. 

Then  suddenly  they  knew  that  they  were  not 
blind.  All  the  world  was  lit  up — lit  up  terribly 
and  then  engulfed  in  darkness  again.  Then  the 
thunder  came,  clamoring  and  roaring  about 
them.  They  were  mountain  boys  and  they  had 
heard  thunder  roar  and  rumble  over  the  hills 
many  times,  but  had  it  ever  had  such  a  frightful 
bellow  as  this?  It  kept  on  and  on  and  before 
the  first  volley  had  quite  died,  again  the  world 
was  lighted  with  that  fiery  light — that  forked 
flame — and  again  the  voice  of  the  sky  awoke  the 
thousand  voices  of  the  hills. 

"Oh,  gosh!"  groaned  Hi. 


HI'S  HOUN'  DAWG  241 

"Ain't  there  no  place  to  hide?"  demanded  Jim 
with  trembling  voice. 

No,  there  was  no  place  to  hide.  The  storm 
king  owned  everything  around  there  that  night. 
It  was  all  his  domain  and  he  meant  to  do  with 
it  as  he  would.  So  he  blasted  an  oak,  and  the 
boys  saw  it;  and  he  cracked  his  horrid  whip  at 
the  invisible  horses  of  the  air,  and  they  rushed 
by  screaming.  And  then  the  rain  came;  not 
drop  by  drop  as  rain  should,  but  in  drops  that 
chased  each  other  so  that  they  became  streams; 
in  streams  that  became  inverted  fountains. 

The  boys  couldn't  even  call  out  to  each  other. 
They  fought  for  breath  as  the  furious  winds 
whipped  them  and  the  drenching  rain  engulfed 
them  almost  like  a  wave  It  was  a  cloudburst, 
they  knew  that  much,  and  finally,  from  mere 
animal  instinct,  they  turned  their  faces  to  the 
ground,  wreathed  their  arms  about  their  heads 
and  lay  prone.  Still  the  lightning  flashed  and 
the  thunder  bellowed;  still  the  winds  wailed 
and  the  trees  snapped.  It  seemed  at  last  merely 
a  question  of  keeping  alive  till  it  was  over. 

But  by  and  by  it  was  over.  It  ceased  almost 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  and  weak  as  half- 
drowned  rats  the  two  boys  got  to  their  feet,  and 


242  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

looking  up  into  a  clear  sky,  saw  the  morning  star 
shining  down  at  them. 

"We've  got  to  get  home,"  said  Jim,  breathing 
deep. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Hi. 

It  was  some  time  before  they  could  find  any 
sort  of  a  trail  whatever,  but  after  a  while  they 
came  upon  one,  though  whether  it  had  been  made 
by  human  feet  long  since  and  overgrown,  or 
whether  it  was  merely  a  rabbit  run  they  could 
not  decide.  However,  they  decided  to  take  it. 
The  dawn  was  flushing  the  sky  and  they  could 
make  their  way  without  much  difiiculty  now,  so 
far  as  seeing  was  concerned,  but  their  feet  were 
blistered  and  their  bodies  felt  as  sore  as  if  they 
had  been  pounded.  They  went  on  and  on,  dog- 
gedly. 

"We're  bound  to  come  to  a  road  soon,"  they 
kept  telling  each  other. 

"Oh,  yes,  we'll  get  somewhere." 

And  they  got  "somewhere,"  beyond  any  man- 
ner of  doubt.  Lifting  their  eyes  at  length,  they 
saw  before  them  that  frightful  cabin  of  "rat- 
tlers," and  stealing  to  the  door  to  greet  the 
brightly  shining  sun  was  a  fine,  confident  father 
of  rattlers.    Hi  gave  one  despairing  whoop  and 


HI'S  HOUN'  DAWG  243 

fled,  Jim  following,  and  once  more  they  sped 
on,  taking  however  an  opposite  direction  from 
that  of  the  night  before  and  trying  to  keep  their 
faces  toward  home.  There  was  the  mountain 
before  them  to  cross,  and  then  Mulberry  Val- 
ley, and  then  there  was  Tennyson  mountain  to 
climb.    It  was  really  quite  simple. 

"Anybody  ought  to  be  able  to  do  that,"  said 
Hi  stoutly. 

But  the  trouble  was  that  after  an  hour's  hard 
plodding  they  came  to  a  sort  of  opening  and 
thought  they  had  reached  a  road  at  last,  and 
there  before  them  once  more  was  the  House  of 
Rattlers.  And  that  was  the  time  they  gave  up 
and  cried.  They  dared  not  stay  near  there,  so 
they  went  on  their  way  hastily,  but  not  running 
now,  sobbing  as  they  went. 

They  were  lost,  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 
They  were  quite  completely  lost  on  a  mountain 
they  never  had  visited  before — a  mountain 
where  nobody  lived  and  where  the  only  neigh- 
borly things  were  rattle  snakes. 

They  were  both  wondering  if  they  were  go- 
ing to  die  there,  to  starve  and  be  heard  of  no 
more.  Of  course,  years  and  years  from  then 
their  "skelingtons"  might  be  found.     But  how- 


244  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

ever  interesting  that  might  be  for  others,  it  really 
would  do  them  no  good  at  all,  when  you  came 
to  think  of  it. 

Ugh,  how  chilly  the  morning  air  was!  And 
how  wet  their  clothes  were!  And  how  empty 
their  stomachs!    And  the  rattlers — the  rattlers! 

There  was  a  strange,  bell-like  sound  in  the 
distance,  a  deep,  musical,  beautiful  sound.  It 
rang  over  the  hills  with  a  note  at  once  sad  and 
glad.  The  boys  stopped  in  their  tracks  and 
listened.  It  came  again,  like  church  bells,  only 
faster.  It  thrilled  the  two  forlorn  wanderers, 
and  brought  the  light  back  to  their  faces. 

"Bike!"  shouted  Hi.  "It's  Bike.  He's  fol- 
lowed  us.  Oh,  Bike,  Bike,  here  we  are,  you 
blessed  old  houn'  dawg!     Here!     Here!" 

They  put  their  fingers  in  their  mouths  and 
whistled,  they  shouted,  they  laughed,  they 
hugged  each  other;  and  then,  over  a  rise  came 
Bike,  wild-eyed  with  delight,  large,  it  seemed, 
as  a  bear,  and  bursting  with  importance. 

He  leaped  on  them  till  he  knocked  them  down; 
he  insisted  on  licking  their  faces,  on  pretending 
to  bite  their  calves,  on  lathering  them  as  if  they 
were   puppies.     He   couldn't  have  enough  of 


HFS  HOUN'  DAWG  245 

1 

them  nor  they  of  him.  But  after  all,  he  came 
to  his  senses  sooner  than  they. 

"Enough  of  this,"  he  seemed  to  say.  "For 
goodness  sake,  let's  be  getting  home." 

He  turned  his  back  on  them  and  started  over 
the  rise,  wagging  his  tail  and  giving  vent  to 
sharp,  scolding  barks. 

"A  fine  lot  of  trouble  you've  put  me  to,"  he 
appeared  to  be  saying.  "Hustle  yourselves  nov^^ 
and  get  home.  Don't  you  knov^  your  folks  are 
worried  to  death  about  you?  Such  boys!  Such 
boys!  It  wears  a  respectable  hound  out  trying 
to  take  care  of  you." 

And  the  boys  understood  and  agreed  with  him. 
So  they  followed  meekly  enough,  limping  first 
on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other  and  calling  to 
him  every  few  minutes  not  to  go  so  fast. 

They  went  on  for  hours  and  hours,  as  it 
seemed,  but  at  last  they  stood  beneath  the  tulip 
trees  by  the  spring  on  Azalea's  plateau. 

"Well,"  said  Hi,  "this  here  is  whar  we  part. 
We-all  don't  seem  to  be  bringin'  the  Disbrows 
back  to  get  their  just  punishment." 

"I  reckon  we'd  better  not  say  much  about 
punishment,"  grinned  the  leg-weary  Jim.  "So 
long.  Hi.    Hope  it  don't  hurt  much." 


246  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"Same  to  you,"  called  Hi.  He  and  Bike  were 
already  on  their  way  down  the  mountain,  and 
Jim,  tired  almost  to  collapse,  made  his  way 
up  the  road  to  where  Ma  McBirney  paced  back 
and  forth,  pouring  out  her  soul  in  prayer. 

But  Pa  McBirney  seemed  to  have  some  feel- 
ings which  did  not  come  under  the  head  of  grati- 
tude for  his  son's  return.  He  knew  what  such  a 
night  of  torture  meant  to  the  dear  woman  be- 
side him,  who  already  had  suffered  too  many 
shocks.  He  looked  Jim  over  with  a  sternly  par- 
ental eye. 

"If  you  got  what's  coming  to  you,  son,"  he 
said,  "you'd  be  well  lathered." 

"I  know  it,  sir,"  said  Jim  with  conviction. 

Pa  hesitated.    He  was  a  gentle  man. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you  know  it,  and  if  you 
think  you'll  remember  it,  latherin'  wouldn't 
teach  you  nothing.  Go  in  with  your  ma  and 
get  some  food,  and  then  wash  yourself  up  and 
go  to  bed.  Ma'd  better  give  you  some  of  that 
salve  o'  hern  for  your  feet.    And  Jim — " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  watch  out  jest  as  hard  as  you  can,  and 
don't  grow  up  a  plumb  fool." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jim. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST 

It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Carson  set  an  ex- 
ample for  the  people  at  Lee  which  many  were 
tempted  to  follow.  And  partly  it  was  the  spring 
calling  them;  partly  it  was  an  itching  desire  to 
find  the  Disbrows.  Lee  was  pretty  well  dis- 
gusted with  itself  as  time  went  on,  for  not  start- 
ing after  the  absconding  undertaker  and  his 
family  immediately  after  their  disappearance, 
and  they  told  themselves  they  certainly  would 
have  done  it  if  Mr.  Carson  hadn't  been  so  dead 
set  against  it.  And  he  was  put  up  to  acting  the 
way  he  did,  they  knew,  by  Annie  Laurie,  who 
was  too  soft-hearted  altogether. 

It  was  a  little  surprising,  all  things  considered, 
that  the  Reverend  Absalom  Summers  should 
have  been  the  next  after  Hi  and  Jim  to  yield  to 
the  temptation  to  take  to  the  hills.  Resisting 
temptation,  as  his  little  wife  pointed  out  to  him, 
ought  to  be  his  specialty.    But  he  contrived  to 

down  her  argument. 

247 


248  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand  my  noble  soul 
at  all,  Barbara,"  he  said.  "My  real  reason  for 
taking  to  the  hills  is  that  I  want  to  visit  my  two 
uncles  back  on  Longstreet  Mountain." 

"But  why  should  you  visit  them,  Absalom, 
dear?  Do  you  really  care  about  seeing  them? 
Aren't  they  two  quarrelsome  old  men?" 

"Well,  they  are  some  quarrelsome,  Barbara, 
and  that's  why  I  think  I  ought  to  see  them,  carry- 
ing a  dove  of  peace  on  my  shoulder." 

"They'd  kill  a  dove  of  peace  and  eat  it, 
wouldn't  they?"  she  asked  laughingly.  "Don't 
they  shoot  everything  in  sight?" 

"Pretty  nigh,"  agreed  Absalom.  "They  cer- 
tainly do  have  nervous  dispositions.  They  own 
a  lot  of  land  up  there  on  Longstreet  Mountain, 
and  the  two  of  them  used  to  live  side  by  side. 
But  their  chickens  were  so  inquisitive  about  what 
was  doing  in  the  next  yard,  and  they  got  so 
mixed  up  running  through  the  fence  and  for- 
getting which  place  was  home,  that  there  was  a 
row  on  early  and  late  between  my  uncles.  It 
was  the  same  with  the  calves.  If  they  wanted  to 
break  into  a  field  and  eat  up  the  corn,  they  al- 
ways picked  out  the  field  of  the  next  door  neigh- 
bor.   And  that  made  the  brothers  just  dancing 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST      249 

mad.  Then  once  Uncle  Ephriam  shot  a  hound 
of  Uncle  Aaron's — said  he  thought  it  was  a  tim- 
ber wolf. 

"And  so  it  went.  There  was  always  trouble. 
When  they  heard  I'd  become  a  preacher  they 
sent  for  me  to  come  up  and  straighten  things 
out.  I  stayed  up  there  a  month  and  talked 
things  over  and  I  couldn't  get  either  old  stiff- 
neck  to  give  an  inch.  So  I  worked  out  a  plan. 
Aaron  had  a  likely  building  site  for  his  house, 
but  Uncle  Ephriam's  was  on  a  slope  and  water 
ran  into  the  cellar  when  it  rained.  Well,  just  in 
front  of  them  was  a  deep  ravine — mighty  pretty 
it  is  too.  I  proposed  that  Ephriam  should  move 
across  to  the  other  side  of  that  gulley.  I  told 
him  if  he  would,  I'd  stay  and  help  him  put  up 
his  house.  So  Aaron  bought  Ephriam's  old 
house  to  use  for  a  barn,  and  Ephriam  moved — 
chickens,  stock,  truck  and  all — across  the  gulley. 
We  got  him  a  nice  sizable  house  there,  and  set- 
tled him  and  his  wife  as  comfortable  as  you 
please.  It  was  altogether  too  much  work  for 
the  calves  and  the  chickens  to  get  across  that 
crack  in  the  earth,  and  so  everyone  lived  in 
peace." 

"That  was  fine.     But  why  should  you  leave 


2SO  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Jonathan  and  me  to  go  to  see  them  if  they're 
doing  so  well?" 

"They  aren't  doing  so  well  as  you  might  think, 
wife.  No  sooner  had  I  got  those  families  separ- 
ated, by  a  convulsion  of  nature,  so  to  speak,  than 
they  took  to  pining  for  each  other." 

^'Nonsense,  Absalom." 

"It's  a  fact,  my  dear.  They  were  as  lonely  as 
owls.  Said  they  didn't  have  anyone  to  talk  to, 
and  that  it  wore  them  all  out  plunging  up  and 
down  that  gulley." 

"Well,  what  can  you  do  about  that?  You 
don't  propose  moving  Uncle  Ephriam  back 
again,  do  you?" 

"Not  at  all,  Barbara,  not  at  all.  I  merely  pro- 
pose making  conversation  easy  and  simple  for 
them." 

"With  a  telephone?" 

"Not  at  all.  A  telephone  would  be  out  of 
place  in  the  hands  of  my  reverend  uncles.  I 
can't  precisely  tell  you  why,  but  you'll  have  to 
take  my  word  that  it  would.  No,  what  I  pro- 
pose to  do  is  to  carry  them  megaphones." 

"Megaphones,  Absalom!" 

"Certainly.  Megaphones  will  become  them. 
They  are  sturdy,  seafaring  sort  of  men — " 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST      251 

"Why,  they've  never  seen  the  sea!" 

"Don't  be  so  literal,  dear.    They  are  sturdy, 

space-roaming,  wilderness-faring  men  in  whose 

hands  megaphones  will  be  appropriate.    I  shall 

strap  one  on  each  side  of  my  horse  and  set  forth 


-to-morrow." 


"But  will  you  get  your  sermon  prepared?" 

"I  shall  prepare  it  while  I'm  riding.  Seri- 
ously, Barbara,  the  wild  man  in  me  is  uppermost. 
You  have  tried  to  civilize  me.  Our  young  son 
has  labored  to  do  the  same  thing.  But  you 
scratch  a  Russian  and  find  a  Tartar;  and  you 
scratch  a  mountain  man  and  you  find  a  rover." 

"And  you've  been  scratched,  wild  man?" 

"I  have.  I'm  ofif  to-morrow.  Bear  with  me, 
dear.    I'll  come  back  as  tame  as  a  house  cat." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  with  shining  eyes. 

"You'll  have  a  wonderful  sermon,"  she  said. 
"I  know  you,  dear.    Go  to  your  hills — " 

"From  whence,"  broke  in  the  Reverend  Absa- 
lom, his  voice  changing,  "cometh  help." 

So  away  he  went  in  the  early  morning,  knap- 
sack well  filled,  blankets  rolled,  and  a  mega- 
phone dangling  from  eath  side  of  his  excellent 
horse. 

Yes,  he  was  glad  to  leave  domesticity  and 


252  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

towns  behind  him;  glad  to  be  away  from  the 
sound  of  voices  and  from  the  need  of  proprie- 
ties. He  was  a  hill  man,  after  all,  he  told  him- 
self, and  lifting  his  face  to  the  sky  he  thanked 
God  that  he  was.  They  satisfied  him,  these  an- 
cient mountains  which  once  had  been  lofty  peaks 
and  which  through  all  the  changing  centuries 
had  crumbled  and  shrunken  till  they  were  the 
friendly  little  mountains  that  he  knew.  They 
were  so  old — so  old  and  so  full  of  secrets.  And 
they  satisfied  his  restless,  longing,  laughing, 
dreaming  soul,  the  curious  soul  of  Absalom  Sum- 
mers, which  differed  from  all  the  other  souls  on 
earth.  Yes,  he  mused,  each  soul  must  differ  from 
another,  as  the  stars  in  heaven  differ. 

On  he  rode  through  the  long  day,  thinking, 
dreaming,  living  a  deep  and  silent  life.  At 
night  he  made  his  meal,  fed  his  horse,  smoked 
his  pipe  and  thought  of  his  sermon.  The  stars 
rolled  over  him  in  their  silent  and  majestic 
courses,  and  beneath  them  he  knelt  to  pray  for 
his  wife  and  babe,  those  inestimably  dear  treas- 
ures of  his,  those  lovely  creatures  of  the  hearth- 
side.  They  liked  their  roof;  he  liked  his  sky. 
Well,  blessings  on  them,  and  might  he  be  for- 
given if  he  harbored  too  wild  a  nature  in  his 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST      253 

bosom  1  It  was  not  a  silent  prayer  that  the  Rev- 
erend Absalom  put  up.  Far  from  it.  He 
shouted  to  the  whispering  pines;  he  addressed 
the  distant  stars;  he  felt  as  if  he  must  send  his 
voice  beyond  the  barriers  of  silence  and  reach 
his  God.  For  that  was  the  kind  of  man  the  Rev- 
erend Absalom  was. 

Then,  as  trusting  as  a  child  in  his  mother's 
arms,  he  laid  him  down  to  sleep.  For  he  felt  the 
"Everlasting  Arms"  about  him. 

The  next  morning  he  arose  at  sunup  and  went 
singing  on  his  way.  He  breakfasted  at  about 
seven  o'clock,  and  stimulated  by  his  powerful 
cup  of  coffee — which,  truth  to  tell,  was  a  fear- 
some liquid — he  pushed  onward.  The  road  he 
had  chosen  was  difficult  to  keep  and  hard  to 
traverse.  There  were,  of  course,  easier  ways  of 
reaching  Longstreet  Mountain,  but  in  order  to 
reach  them  he  would  have  had  to  take  a  train, 
and  nothing  was  further  from  his  inclination  at 
present  than  riding  by  steam.  He  wanted  just 
what  he  was  having,  the  heave  of  good  horseflesh 
beneath  him. 

The  day  passed  without  events  other  than  the 
sort  he  desired:  the  lift  of  a  bird  from  a  bush, 
the  rippling  of  a  stream  across  his  path,  the  nos- 


254  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

ing  of  the  horse  at  the  ford,  a  burst  of  laurel 
blossoms  in  a  sunny  path.  He  went  on,  whistling 
and  singing.  Oftenest  it  was  his  old,  best-loved 
hymn :    "A  mighty  fortress  is  our  Lord." 

Along  late  in  the  afternoon  a  mist  began  to 
gather  over  the  mountain.  It  blurred  everything 
delicately;  it  put  a  soft,  filmy  veil  over  the  face 
of  the  landscape  and  enhanced  its  beauty  by  so 
doing.  But  after  a  while  it  began  to  be  a  bit  eerie. 
As  the  wanderer  cooked  his  evening  meal  it 
seemed  as  if  shadowy  white  figures  drew  near, 
bending  over  him,  and  then  flitting  away  as  he 
arose.  It  did  no  more  than  amuse  him,  of  course. 
He  knew  the  tricks  of  the  mountain  mist.  But 
he  couldn't  help  remembering  how  terrified  he 
had  been  once  as  a  child  when  he  had  been  out 
on  a  night  much  like  this,  and  had  had  a  five 
mile  walk  alone  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand, 
which  seemed  to  summon  ghostly  figures  from 
the  roadside. 

"It  would  be  a  bad  night  for  a  man  with  a 
bad  conscience,"  he  said  aloud.  "He  would 
think  there  were  avenging  spirits  on  his  track, 
sure  enough.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I've  plenty 
of  things  to  have  a  bad  conscience  about  myself. 
I'd  better  be  watching  out  or  the  goblins  will 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST      255 

get  me.  And  whatever  would  wife  Barbara 
and  baby  Jonathan  do  then,  poor  things! 

The  place  where  he  had  lighted  his  camp  fire 
was  in  a  little  hollow  and  the  mist  gathered  very 
thickly  there,  so  he  concluded  that  it  would  be 
better  to  go  on  farther  up  the  mountain.  It  was 
possible  that  he  might  find  an  airier  place  where 
the  draft  would  keep  the  heavier  clouds  away. 
So  once  more  he  put  his  horse  to  the  path  and 
went  on  silently,  rather  weary,  and  heartily  wish- 
ing that  the  night  were  fair. 

He  was  very  far  from  the  beaten  road,  in  a 
place  so  solitary  that  he  could  not  hope  to  meet 
anyone,  so  it  was  with  no  little  surprise  that  he 
found  himself,  suddenly,  almost  upon  a  group 
of  human  beings.  They  were  sitting,  three  of 
them,  around  a  fire,  well  wrapped  from  the 
chill.  There  was  a  sort  of  rude  hut  beside  them, 
fashioned  of  saplings  and  thatched  with  pine 
boughs.  Here,  apparently,  they  slept.  They 
were  not  then  like  himself,  wanderers,  but  camp- 
ers. Well,  it  was  a  quiet  place  for  a  camp,  and 
no  doubt  a  sightly  one — 

His  thoughts  broke  off  like  a  thread  that  is 
snapped.  He  recognized  the  persons  at  whom 
he  was  looking.    They  were  the  Disbrows !  They 


256  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

were  the  fugitives.  At  first  he  thought  of  going 
right  up  to  them,  but  something  withheld  him. 
He  could  hear  Mrs.  Disbrow's  voice,  and  he 
slid  from  his  horse  and  having  tied  him,  crept 
nearer  with  as  much  stealth  and  skill  in  silence 
as  an  Indian,  that  he  might  listen.  There  were 
things  he  felt  that  he  must  know,  and  that  as 
Sam's  friend  he  had  a  right  to  know. 

"I  don't  mean  to  go  on,  pa,"  Mrs.  Disbrow 
was  saying.  "What's  the  use  of  going  on?  What- 
ever would  it  mean  for  me  but  another  house 
to  look  after,  and  me  lacking  the  strength  to  do 
it?  Hannah  would  drudge  and  drudge,  and 
that's  all  there'd  be  to  it.  Living  like  this  there 
aren't  any  pantry  shelves  to  clean  or  doorsteps 
to  scrub.  That's  a  great  point  to  a  woman  with 
no  elbow  grease.  You  understand,  pa,  it's  been 
pretty  dull  for  me  these  last  few  years  back. 
You  can't  tell  what  it  is  to  lie  awake  all  night 
wondering  if  the  morning  will  ever  come,  and 
when  the  morning  comes,  hating  it  because  the 
light  tears  your  eyes  out  and  the  noise  splits 
your  ears." 

"But  you  seem  to  stand  the  light  and  the  noise 
here  well  enough,  ma." 

"So  I  do.    That's  why  I  want  to  stay.    The 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST      257 

only  noise  is  what  the  crickets  and  birds  make, 
with  now  and  then  a  bee  humming  or  an  owl 
screeching.  And  the  light  is  green,  coming 
through  the  trees.  Why,  it's  as  if  a  thousand 
years  had  rolled  off  my  back.  There's  no  one 
around  wondering  about  me,  and  trying  this 
trick  and  that  to  get  a  sight  of  me." 

"No  one  ever  did  that,  ma,"  cried  out  the 
shrill  voice  of  Hannah.  "That  was  just  your 
imagination.  It  was  your  being  sick  made  you 
think  that  way." 

"Well,  however  that  may  be,  out  here  we're 
free.  Now  I  propose,  since  you've  got  some 
money,  pa,  that  we  move  around  here  and  there, 
like  a  nice  family  of  bears — the  father,  and  the 
mother  and  the  baby  bear." 

She  gave  a  curious,  unaccustomed  laugh. 
Then  suddenly  she  turned  toward  her  husband, 
and  Mr.  Summers  could  see  her  wild  eyes  gleam- 
ing in  the  firelight. 

"But  what  I  can't  make  out,  Hector,"  she 
said,  "is  where  you  got  that  money.  Why  don't 
you  talk  out  the  way  a  husband  should  to  a 
wife?  Here  we've  been  living  so  close  to  the 
wind  that  we  hadn't  enough  to  satisfy  us,  and 
Hannah's  been  going  without  enough  to  clothe 


258  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

her  decently.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  your  pockets 
are  full  of  money  I  What  does  it  mean.  Hector? 
And  why  did  you  clear  out  of  Lee  in  the  night? 
When  you  gave  the  word  to  go  I  was  feeling  so 
dull  in  my  head  that  I  didn't  care  whether  the 
thing  was  right  or  wrong.  But  now  I  seem  to 
have  come  to  life.  I've  got  to  thinking  again, 
like  I  was  a  real  human  being.    And  Hector — " 

Her  voice  carried  on  the  air  with  the  wild  note 
of  a  loon. 

"Hector!" 

"Well,  ma,  go  on,  for  goodness  sake." 

"How  did  it  come  that  you  got  that  money 
just  when  Simeon  Pace's  money  disappeared? 
Tell  me  that,  husband!  Tell  me  you  didn't  have 
anything  to  do  with  it!  My  life's  been  queer 
and  dark,  but  it's  been  honest.  You've  turned 
out  a  different  man  from  what  I  thought  you'd 
be.  I  hoped  on  and  on  for  you,  but  you  didn't 
get  anywhere,  and  I  got  worn  out  and  took  to  my 
bed  and  meant  never  to  get  out  of  it.  But  even 
when  you'd  taken  all  the  spunk  out  of  me  I 
never  thought  you  was  anything  but  honest.  Are 
you.  Hector?    Are  you  honest — or  a  thief?" 

It  wrung  Summers'  heart;  yet  he  knew  that 
the  time  had  come  for  judgment.    He  had  been 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  MIST      259 

a  boy  of  wild  pranks  and  he  loved  a  prank  still. 
An  idea  came  flashing  into  his  head.  He  crept 
back  to  his  horse,  loosened  one  of  the  mega- 
phones and  put  it  to  his  mouth,  and  in  that  voice 
w^hich  had  electrified  great  camp  meetings,  mag- 
nified many  times  by  the  horn,  he  bellowed  into 
the  mist: 

"Disbrow,  thief!  Give  back  the  money  you 
stole!  Make  restitution!  Return  the  money  of 
the  orphan!  Simeon  Pace  is  in  his  grave,  and 
his  orphan's  money  is  in  your  pocket!  Disbrow, 
thief!" 

The  great  megaphone  waved  up  and  down  in 
the  air,  and  the  accusing  voice  was  borne  to  the 
group  around  the  fire,  as  if  carried  on  winds 
from  the  furthermost  heaven.  In  the  white 
gloom,  with  the  wreathing  wraiths  of  the  mist 
dancing  about  them,  the  dark  cavern  below,  the 
sighing  trees  above,  the  monstrous  voice,  like 
that  of  an  angry  angel,  besieged  their  ears.  Sum- 
mers was  too  far  from  them  to  see  them  cower, 
and  he  could  not  see  their  stricken  faces.  His 
heart  secretly  misgave  him  for  what  he  might  be 
doing  to  the  woman  and  the  girl,  but  he  did  not 
flinch  for  all  that.    He  gave  out  one  last  call : 

"Make  restitution!    To-morrow  at  sunrise  set 


26o  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

out  upon  your  journey.  Do  not  pause  till  wrong 
has  been  made  right.  This  is  the  first  warning. 
Beware  the  second!" 

The  mountain  echoes  caught  it  up  and  shouted 
the  words  back,  while  up  and  down  the  chasm 
below  the  roadway  the  mist  figures  writhed  and 
climbed.  Summers  mounted  his  horse  and  stole 
back  the  way  he  had  come  till  he  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  gulch,  then  taking  the  path  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  he  proceeded  on  his  way.  It  was 
almost  dawn  when  he  drew  rein,  tethered  his 
horse,  and  laid  him  down  to  sleep. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  to  his  horse,  "that  I  haven't 
scared  those  poor  women  to  death.  But  it  had 
to  be,  you  see — nothing  else  for  it."  And  then 
suddenly  he  burst  into  a  wild  torrent  of  laugh- 
ter. It  rolled  out  of  him  in  waves;  it  shook  him 
like  a  convulsion.  And  having  eased  his  soul, 
he  lay  down  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GOOD  FOR  EVIL 

The  Carsons  and  the  Paces,  with  Azalea,  came 
driving  home  one  chilly  evening  in  a  light  fall 
of  rain.  They  were  tired  and  cold  and  had  alto- 
gether an  after-the-picnic  sort  of  feeling.  In- 
deed, when  Azalea,  who  was  to  stay  in  the  val- 
ley for  the  night,  and  Annie  Laurie  had  helped 
the  aunts  into  the  house,  they  found  them  so 
travelworn  that  they  insisted  that  they  should  get 
into  bed  at  once  and  have  their  suppers  brought 
to  them. 

A  few  weeks  before,  Aunt  Adnah  would  have 
perished  rather  than  submit  to  such  an  indignity, 
no  matter  how  comfortable  she  found  it.  And 
Aunt  Zillah  would  not  have  indulged  in  such 
a  luxury  with  her  sister's  stern  eye  upon  her. 
But  more  and  more  Annie  Laurie's  determined 
will  was  having  its  way  in  that  household,  and 
when  to  her  command  was  added  Azalea's  im- 
portunities, the  aunts  yielded. 

Sam  had  the  fires  burning  for  them  in  a  few 

261 


262  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

minutes,  and  as  the  old  ladies  undressed  and 
toasted  their  shins  before  the  blaze,  and  thought 
of  the  two  competent  young  girls  down  in  the 
kitchen  who  were  preparing  supper  for  them, 
they  experienced  the  luxurious  feeling  of  those 
who  are  old,  well-loved,  and  carefully  looked 
after. 

''If  they  were  girls  who  would  be  getting 
everything  out  of  its  place,"  said  Miss  Zillah  to 
Miss  Adnah,  "I  don't  suppose  we'd  feel  as  com- 
fortable as  we  do;  but  they  take  hold  just  as  we 
would  ourselves.  I'm  bound  to  say  that  I 
wouldn't  know  how  to  stand  on  my  feet  to  get 
supper  to-night." 

"And  here  Annie  Laurie  has  filled  those  new 
fangled  water  bottles  for  us,  and  looked  out  our 
warmest  nightgowns.  We  certainly  have  a  lot 
to  be  thankful  for,  Zillah.  When  brother  passed 
away  I  thought  that  I  would  just  naturally  step 
in  and  take  charge  of  things — I  believed  I  had 
the  strength  for  it  and  the  brains  for  it, — but  it 
seems  it  was  not  to  be.  Whether  it  was  the 
shock  of  Simeon's  death  or  merely  that  I'm  get- 
ting old,  I  wouldn't  undertake  to  say,  but  cer- 
tainly I'm  not  the  woman  I  was.  Why,  suddenly 
when  I  think  to  be  the  strongest,  I  find  myself 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  263 

all  shaky  in  the  knees  and  confused  in  the  head." 

"It's  just  the  nervous  shock,  sister.  You'll  be 
all  right  by  and  by.  Trouble  is  like  sickness,  it 
takes  a  while  to  recuperate  from  it." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Annie 
Laurie  entered  bearing  a  tray.  Behind  her  was 
Azalea  with  another.  Tea,  toast,  little  golden 
omelettes,  preserves  and  other  dainties  tempting 
to  the  appetites  of  two  jaded  old  ladies  appeared 
on  the  best  dishes  and  the  whitest  napery  that 
could  be  found  in  the  Pace  household. 

"My,  my,  what  a  fuss  you  make  over  us,"  said 
Aunt  Adnah,  disapprovingly.  "I'm  sure  the 
common  dishes  would  have  done  perfectly  well, 
Ann." 

Annie  Laurie  shook  her  finger  at  her  aunt. 

"Don't  you  call  me  Ann,"  she  laughed.  "The 
best  dishes  are  none  too  good  for  you  two;  and 
anyway,  we're  celebrating  because  we're  home  I" 

Aunt  Zillah  narrow^ed  her  eyes  in  a  way  she 
had. 

"You're  sure  you  love  your  home,  child,  now 
that  there  are  only  us  two  old  souls  in  it,  and 
that  we're  so  poor  and  all?" 

"Of  course  I  love  my  home,"  declared  Annie 
Laurie.    "I  should  say  I  did!    And  we're  not  go- 


264  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

ing  to  be  poor.  I  simply  won't  be  poor.  And  I 
don't  feel  poor  anyway.  It's  so  meachin  to  feel 
poor!  Please  don't  use  the  word,  Aunt.  How 
can  you,  when  we  have  a  fire  like  this  and  sup- 
pers as  good  as  those  on  the  trays,  and  when  we 
can  ask  a  friend  in  whenever  we  please,  and  go 
on  lovely  vacations?    Poor!" 

She  gave  a  little  shiver  of  disgust  at  the  word. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you  do  put  heart  into  one," 
sighed  Aunt  Zillah,  as  if  she  needed  all  the  good 
cheer  that  anybody  could  spare  her.  "Some- 
times I  do  think  we're  falling  off  in  our  spirits, 
Adnah  and  I." 

The  girls  stood  laughing  and  talking  with 
the  aunts  a  few  minutes  more,  and  then  ran  down 
to  get  their  own  suppers. 

"Let's  eat  it  before  the  living  room  fire," 
said  Azalea.    "We'll  put  it  on  the  sewing  table." 

"And  we'll  have  Sam  to  eat  with  us.  He  sim- 
ply must,  that's  all,  we've  so  much  to  tell  him," 
added  Annie  Laurie. 

It  was  a  much  easier  thing  for  Azalea  to  cook 
the  supper  than  it  was  for  Annie  Laurie  to  per- 
suade Sam  to  come  in  and  eat  with  them.  But 
the  bright-faced  girl,  with  her  good  will  shin- 
ing in  her  face,  succeeded  in  overcoming  his 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  265 

scruples.  It  was  very  hard  for  so  social  a  crea- 
ture as  Sam  to  keep  to  himself,  holding  before 
himself  the  hard  fact: 

"I  am  the  son  of  a  man  who  is  under  suspi- 
cion. I  must  not  be  the  friend  of  honest  folk 
until  I  am  proved  of  an  honest  family." 

To-night,  at  any  rate,  he  permitted  himself  to 
forget.  So,  while  the  rain  dashed  against  the 
windowpane,  the  three  sat,  warm  and  dry,  in 
the  familiar  room  and  ate  their  supper,  while 
the  girls  told  stories  of  the  curious  people  they 
had  seen,  and  of  the  nice  and  interesting  ones, 
and  of  dangers  from  which  they  had  thrillingly 
escaped. 

In  the  midst  of  it  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Annie  Laurie,  "I'm  nearest. 
Who  can  it  be  on  such  a  night?" 

She  flung  wide  the  door,  and  then  as  the  other 
two  turned  to  see  who  it  was,  she  half  closed  it 
again,  involuntarily,  and  stepped  back.  Some- 
thing was  the  matter,  Sam  perceived  as  he  started 
to  his  feet;  then  he  saw  Annie  Laurie  fling  open 
the  door  again  and  back  away  from  it. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  strange  voice. 

And  a  man  entered  with  a  curiously  swift 


266  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

movement,  almost  as  if  he  were  hunted.  The 
rain  ran  from  his  clothes  and  his  beard;  he  was 
covered  with  red  clay,  and  he  seemed  to  shrink 
from  observation.  Yet  after  a  second  he  took 
off  his  hat,  and  then  Sam  saw  that  it  was  his 
father.  Mr.  Disbrow  came  into  the  room  at 
last  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Father I"  Sam  breathed,  but  Annie  Laurie 
held  up  her  hand  and  Sam  said  no  more.  She 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  be  carried  out  of  her- 
self, and  to  cease  to  be  a  very  young  and  inex- 
perienced girl,  and  to  take  on  the  grave  look 
of  one  who  was  sitting  in  judgment. 

Disbrow's  eyes,  usually  so  wavering,  fixed 
themselves  on  Annie  Laurie's.  They  were  quite 
on  a  level,  these  two,  as  to  height,  but  the  man 
looked  broken  and  beaten;  the  girl  was  strong 
and  free  and,  in  her  simple  way,  proud.  She 
stood  there  waiting,  and  Disbrow  came  on 
toward  her. 

"I've  come  to  make  it  up  to  you,  miss,"  he 
said  with  trembling  lips.  "I've  come  to  give 
back  what  I  took  from  you." 

Above  the  crackling  of  the  fire  and  the  beat- 
ing of  the  rain  on  the  windows  they  heard  her 
say: 


''Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  strange  voice. 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  267 

"I  am  glad." 

The  man  tore  off  his  dripping  coat,  and  tak- 
ing a  knife  from  his  pocket,  began  cutting  at  the 
lining.  He  took  out  package  after  package  of 
bills  and  laid  them  on  the  table.  And  still  he 
clipped,  and  still  the  money  appeared  from  the 
wadded  lining  of  the  coat.  Then  he  flung  the 
coat  on  a  chair. 

"I'll  leave  it  there,"  he  said.  "If  there  is 
more  you  can  find  it."  He  folded  his  arms  and 
looked  at  the  girl. 

"Well,  that's  over,"  he  said.  "I  tried  to  go  on 
with  the  plan  I'd  laid  out  for  myself,  but  I 
couldn't  sleep  for  thinking  I  was  a  thief.  And 
then  a  voice  came  from  Heaven  and  told  me  so. 
Don't  smile  at  that,  miss — my  poor  wife  heard 
the  voice,  and  Hannah  heard  it.  I've  left  them 
out  in  the  mountains  and  God  only  knows  what 
will  come  to  them,  for  I  reckon  you'll  be  want- 
ing to  hand  me  over  to  the  sheriff." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Disbrow,"  cried  Annie  Laurie, 
"you  know  I'll  not  do  anything  of  the  kind.  I 
couldn't  do  such  a  thing  to  an  old  neighbor,  and 
to  Sam's  father  at  that!" 

Disbrow  raised  one  arm  in  the  air. 

"I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything  now," 


268  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

he  said  in  his  deep  quavering  voice.  "Sam  ain't 
my  boy;  nor  he  ain't  my  wife's  boy.  He's  taken 
from  the  asylum,  Sam  is.  We  thought  we  wasn't 
going  to  have  a  child,  and  we  took  him  and  never 
told  him.  Anybody  could  see  he  wa'n't  our  boy, 
if  they'd  had  sense." 

Annie  Laurie  half  turned.  There  was  a  con- 
suming pity  in  her  heart,  and  a  great  hope  that 
Sam  would  not  disappoint  her.  And  he  did  not. 
He  took  three  strides  and  stood  by  the  man  he 
had  all  his  life  called  father. 

"I  reckon  we  won't  go  back  on  the  relation- 
ship," he  said.  "If  you  took  me  out  of  an  asylum 
and  cared  for  me  when  I  was  little,  I  don't  mean 
to  go  back  on  you  just  now,  sir,  when  you're — 
when  you're  down  on  your  luck." 

"He's  not  down  on  his  luck,"  said  Annie  Lau- 
rie in  her  clear  tones.  "He's  a  lucky  man  to 
have  the  courage  to  bring  back  the  thing  he  took 
that  wasn't  his,  Sam.  Not  everyone  could  have 
done  it.  You  ought  to  feel  proud  of  a  father 
who  could  do  that,  Sam." 

"I  am,"  said  Sam.  "I'm  mighty  proud  of 
him." 

Their  youth,  and  the  generosity  of  their  youth, 
their  desire  to  do  the  best  they  could  for  each 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  269 

other's  sake,  had  winged  them  up  to  that  high 
place  where  Mercy  sits.  Azalea,  watching 
them,  thrilled  to  think  they  were  her  friends. 
They  were  doing  precisely  what  Ma  McBirney 
would  have  wished  them  to  do  if  she  had  been 
there  to  advise  them.  They  were  not  being  just 
— they  were  much,  much  better  than  just.  They 
were  merciful.    Annie  Laurie  went  on: 

"I  don't  know  how  much  money  there  is 
there,  sir,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  pile  of  bills 
on  the  table,  "but  I  am  sure  there  is  a  good  deal 
and  that  you  have  given  me  back  all  you  took." 

"All  but  two  hundred  dollars,  miss.  I  gave 
Sam  a  hundred,  and  I  used  a  hundred  myself. 
I'll  pay  it  back  some  day,  if  I  can." 

"What  I  was  going  to  say  was  that  I  want 
you  to  count  out  a  thousand  dollars  of  that  money 
for  yourself.  I'm  not  going  to  lend  it  to  you. 
I  don't  want  you  to  go  on  thinking  you  have  a 
debt  like  that.  I  know  you've  had  a  hard  time, 
Mr.  Disbrow.  Father  used  to  speak  of  it  and 
feel  sorry;  and  I've  felt  dreadfully  sorry  for 
you  times  and  times.  Now,  you're  to  take  a 
thousand  and  just  pretend,  if  you  like,  that  my 
father  willed  it  to  you,  and  then  you're  to  go 


270  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

away  where  you  can  begin  over  with  a  little 
shop,  or  farm,  and  make  your  way." 

Pretend  that  Simeon  Pace  had  willed  it  to 
him — Simeon  Pace  whom  he  had  hated  because 
Pace  was  a  successful  man  and  he  an  unsuccess- 
ful one!  And  Pace  had  felt  sorry  for  himl  But 
if  that  was  the  case,  why  hadn't  he  helped  him? 
Yet  Hector  Disbrow  knew  why — he  knew  it  was 
because  of  his  lazy  ways  and  his  bitter  tongue, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  himself 
as  his  neighbors  had  seen  him,  as  a  hang-dog 
man  whom  it  was  anything  but  pleasant  to  meet. 
Yes,  he  had  missed  the  road,  someway.  He 
hadn't  known  how  to  find  the  House  of  Good 
Will.  He  had  broken  his  wife's  spirit,  and  had 
darkened  the  lives  of  the  two  children  who  lived 
beneath  his  roof.  He  had  made  a  failure  of 
everything — had  even  sunk  to  be  a  thief.  And 
now  here  was  this  girl  giving  him  another 
chance.  And  Sam  was  saying  that  he'd  still  be 
his  son! 

He  was  cold  and  hungry,  worn  with  sleepless- 
ness, shaken  with  the  memory  of  the  terrible 
voice  that  had  cried  in  the  mist,  and  this  unex- 
pected kindness  was  too  much  for  him.  He  had 
not  meant  to  do  it — did  not  know  that  he  ever 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  271 

could  do  such  a  thing — but  he  burst  into  the 
sobs  of  a  broken  man,  and  when  Sam  had  led 
him  to  a  chair  he  dropped  his  head  on  the  table 
and  wept. 

They  talked  together,  the  four  of  them,  when 
Mr.  Disbrow  had  grown  calmer.  Azalea  would 
have  left  them,  but  Annie  Laurie  wanted  her 
to  stay.  She  held  her  hand  and  kept  her  close 
beside  her. 

"You  understand  everything,  Azalea,"  she 
whispered.  "You  don't  seem  surprised  at  good 
times  or  at  bad  times,  dear.  You  take  things  as 
they  come.  Stay  with  me,  Azalea,  I  need  you 
very  much." 

"What  will  you  do,  miss?"  Disbrow  had  asked. 
"Will  you  let  the  people  know  how  you  got  your 
money  back?" 

Annie  Laurie  thought  a  moment. 

"Don't  you  think  they  have  been  suspecting 
you,  Mr.  Disbrow?"  she  asked. 

The  man  nodded  miserably. 

"There  wa'n't  a  man  in  town  would  shake 
hands  with  me,"  he  confessed. 

"And  don't  you  think,"  went  on  the  girl,  "that 
they  thought  it  fine  of  Sam  to  give  up  his  school 


272  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

and  to  come  back  here  and  help  out  the  aunts 
and  myself?" 

"They  must  have  thought  he  was  trying  to 
give  a  square  deal,"  said  Disbrow. 

"Well,  then,"  Annie  Laurie  went  on,  holding 
tight  to  Azalea's  hand  to  gather  courage,  "I 
think  I  ought  to  tell  them.  It  will  let  them 
know  you  were  honest  in  your  heart  after  all, 
and  it  will  make  them  give  Sam  credit  for  what 
he's  done.  I'm  sure  that's  the  right  way,  Mr. 
Disbrow.  When  I  was  naughty  I  used  to  like 
to  be  punished — it  made  me  feel  fair  and  honest 
again.  And  you'll  feel  better  if  the  neighbors 
know.  That  will  be  your  punishment.  And 
what's  more,  it  will  explain  everything.  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  tell  a  lie  when  I  say  how  I  got 
my  money  back.  I  never  yet  told  a  lie  and  I 
don't  want  to  begin  now." 

The  man  bowed  his  head  and  sat  staring  into 
the  fire. 

"I  reckon  what  you  say  Is  right,"  he  admitted. 

Azalea  had  placed  a  heaping  plate  of  food 
before  him.  She  made  hot  cofifee  and  urged  him 
to  drink  it.  And  she  found  a  pouch  of  tobacco 
and  forced  that  on  him.    His  clothes  had  dried 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  273 

before  the  hearty  fire,  and  when  he  had  lighted 
his  pipe  he  began  to  feel  master  of  himself  again. 

"I  think,  dad,"  said  Sam,  ''that  the  best  thing 
for  you  to  do  is  to  get  out  of  here  to-night  before 
you're  seen.  I've  some  heavy  new  boots  that 
you  can  wear  and  you  can  have  my  raincoat  and 
sou'wester.  That's  my  advice — hit  the  trail  to- 
night and  get  so  far  out  of  the  way  that  none  of 
your  old  neighbors  will  meet  you.  Settle  in  some 
live  town  over  the  mountain;  put  mother  in  a 
nice,  light,  little  house — and  whatever  you  do, 
don't  have  green  shades  to  the  windows — and 
maybe  she'll  get  well  again." 

"She's  better  now,"  said  Mr.  Disbrow.  "Fifty 
percent  better.  But  of  course  she  looks  with 
contempt  on  me.  I  don't  know  whether  she'll 
let  me  go  back  to  her  or  not,  Sam." 

"Mother!"  cried  Sam.  "Of  course  she  will! 
You  go  back  and  don't  take  no  for  an  answer. 
You-all  just  hike  over  the  mountain  to  a  new 
place  and  get  a  new  start  all  'round.  And  one 
of  the  first  things  is  to  get  Hannah's  eyes 
straightened.  She  can't  enjoy  herself  the  way 
she  is.    It  just  spoils  her  life." 

"Yes,  it  does,  Mr.  Disbrow,"  put  in  Azalea. 


274  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"It  makes  her  so  shy  that  it's  terrible  for  her. 
Do  say  you'll  have  her  eyes  made  right." 

Disbrow  looked  up  at  Azalea  with  something 
almost  like  a  smile.  She  was  bending  forward 
pleading  with  him,  her  own  odd,  intense  look 
on  her  face.  She  did  indeed  seem  to  have  a  way 
of  understanding  the  troubles  of  people. 

"I'll  do  it,  miss,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  tell  Han- 
nah you-all  told  me  to." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
Mr.  Disbrow  turned  his  eyes  on  Sam  and  a  deep 
flush  spread  over  his  face. 

"It's  all  right  for  you  to  say  you'll  stand  by 
me,  son,"  he  said,  "but  if  I  go  sneakin'  off  and 
hidin'  away,  how  am  I  going  to  be  able  to  stand 
by  you?    What  will  'come  of  you,  anyway?" 

"Now  don't  worry  about  me,  sir,"  Sam  said 
independently;  "I'll  get  on  somehow." 

"Oh,  it's  going  to  be  easy  for  Sam,"  Annie 
Laurie  broke  in  enthusiastically.  "You  see  it's 
this  way.  Now  I  have  my  money  I'll  be  able  to 
pay  for  all  the  work  he's  been  doing  for  me,  and 
he'll  keep  right  on  working  and  saving  up  his 
money,  and  next  October  he'll  go  back  to  the 
Rutherford  Academy.  It's  not  so  far  away  but 
that  he  can  afford  to  run  down  here  every  week 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  275 

or  two  to  go  over  the  books,  and  he'll  get  some 
good  man  in  to  take  his  place  while  he's  away. 
Vacations,  he  can  take  charge  himself.  Oh, 
we'll  get  on  now,  Mr.  Disbrow,  both  Sam  and 
I,  and  we'll  have  plenty  of  schooling  too." 

Hector  Disbrow  looked  at  the  tall  boy  sitting 
beside  him  and  at  the  bright-faced  girl  who  had 
spoken,  and  started  to  say  something,  but 
thought  better  of  it  and  put  his  hand  up  to  his 
mouth  instead. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  heard  Azalea  murmur. 
"They'll  get  on  now.  Things  are  coming  all 
right  for  them  just  as  they  have  for  me.  There's 
an  end  to  trouble,  isn't  there,  if  you  just  hang  on 
and  wait?" 

"Well,  there  is,  miss,"  agreed  Mr.  Disbrow. 
"And  now  I  reckon  I  better  take  the  advice  you 
all  gave  me  and  hike." 

"Are  you  going  to  walk,  sir?"  Sam  asked. 

"No,  I've  got  one  of  the  horses  hid  back  here 
a  ways.  I'll  slip  on  him  and  get  up  the  moun- 
tain before  daybreak.  Your  ma  and  Hannah 
will  be  worrying  about  me,  I  reckon.  Ma's 
down  on  me,  but  that  won't  keep  her  from  wor- 
rying about  me,  you  know.'* 

Sam  nodded. 


276  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

"They're  sleeping  in  a  little  tent  I  rigged  up 
for  them — kind  of  half  house,  half  tent.  Durn 
it,  I  wish  I  could  buy  something  to  take  to  'em. 
The  food  supply's  getting  mighty  low." 

"Have  you  saddle  bags  on  your  horse,  Mr. 
Disbrow?"  Annie  Laurie  asked. 

"I  reckon,"  said  Disbrow  dryly,  ashamed  to 
test  her  generosity  further. 

"Then  drive  up  to  the  storehouse  door  and 
we'll  be  out  with  a  lantern.  I've  enough  food 
to  feed  a  little  army  and  you-all  mustn't  go 
hungry  while  that's  the  case." 

He  avoided  her  look  as  he  thanked  her. 
Was  she  going  to  remember  her  offer  to  him  of 
a  thousand  dollars?     She  surely  was. 

"Azalea,"  she  said,  "count  out  the  money  I 
promised  Mr.  Disbrow." 

Azalea  turned  to  the  table  where  the  fascinat- 
ing rolls  lay.  There  was  indeed,  much  of  it. 
Most  of  the  bills  were  of  the  hundred  dollar 
denomination.  None  of  the  children  had  seen 
anything  like  it — it  was  like  looking  into  Alad- 
din's cave  to  stand  there  beside  that  old  table 
with  rolls  of  bank  notes.  Perhaps  each  one  of 
the  young  persons  wished  that  it  had  been  in 
gold  instead  of  paper  money,  but  even  as  it  was 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  277 

it  thrilled  them.  Azalea's  fingers  trembled,  as 
slowly  and  accurately  she  counted  out  the  ten 
one  hundred-dollar  bills  and  handed  them  to 
Annie  Laurie,  who  in  turn  gave  them  to  Mr. 
Disbrow.  He  would  have  liked,  in  the  shamed 
soul  of  him,  to  make  some  sort  of  a  joke  of  it, 
but  he  could  not  and  the  cheap  words  he  tried 
to  speak  died  on  his  lips. 

''Thank  you — thank  you,"  was  all  he  said. 

''It's  not  because  you  brought  back  my 
money,"  Annie  Laurie  added,  with  something 
of  the  stern  accent  of  her  Aunt  Adnah;  "it's  be- 
cause you're  an  old  neighbor,  as  I  said,  and 
because  I've  known  you  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  I  have  seen  that  things  were  hard  for 
you.  Most  of  all,  it's  because  Sam  would  like 
me  to  do  it.  That's  so,  isn't  it,  Sam;  you  like  me 
to  do  it?" 

"Oh,  Annie  Laurie,"  Sam  cried,  choking,  "I 
like  you  to  do  it." 

He  lifted  the  old  coat  from  the  chair  and 
helped  his  father  into  it,  but  it  was  soaking  wet 
and  he  flung  it  down  again. 

"Wait,"  he  said;  "I'll  be  back  with  the  dry 
things  in  a  minute." 

So  in  the  new,  dry  boots,  a  reefer,  raincoat  and 


278  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

storm  hat — fed,  warmed,  forgiven,  the  man  who 
had  so  failed  went  out  from  Annie  Laurie's  door. 

"We'll  be  waiting  at  the  storehouse  for  you," 
she  called  after  him.  And  half  an  hour  later, 
with  his  saddle  bags  well  filled,  he  was  ofi  up 
the  mountain,  never  to  come  into  their  lives 
again. 

"Come  back  by  the  fire,"  pleaded  Azalea. 
"Come,  Sam,  come  back  and  get  warm  before 
you  go  to  bed." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  so  chilly  again  after 
all  the  lovely  days  we've  had,"  Annie  Laurie 
remarked.  She  was  deeply  moved  and  glad  of 
the  opportunity  to  talk  about  something  besides 
the  man  who  had  just  ridden  away  from  them. 

So  the  three  went  in  and  sat  before  the  fire. 

"Oh,  Sam,"  said  Azalea,  "you  didn't  ask  Mr. 
Disbrow  who  your  father  really  was." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  knew,"  Sam  said,  "and 
I'm  not  sure  I  want  to."  He  dropped  his  head 
in  his  hands  and  sat  staring  at  the  dying  fire. 

"Oh,  well,"  Annie  Laurie  said,  "America's 
for  individuals.  That's  what  Mr.  Summers  says 
and  that's  what  I  think  too.  And  as  an  individ- 
ual, Sam,  you'll  pass  muster,  eh?" 

Sam  laughed  rather  bitterly. 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL  279 

"Oh,"  he  half  groaned,  "I  wish—" 

"What?"  asked  Azalea. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what.  I  was  just  thinking 
what  a  queer,  lonely  trio  we  are — orphans,  the 
three  of  us." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girls,  "that's  so." 

They  sat  for  a  time  in  silence,  each  absorbed 
in  thought.  The  fire  crackled  a  little  now  and 
then,  and  sank  lower  and  lower.  By  and  by 
Annie  Laurie  spoke  softly — 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we're  orphans,  but  I  reckon 
we'll  be  taken  care  of." 

"Oh,  yes,"  murmured  Azalea's  soft  voice. 
"I'm  sure  of  it.    Why  Ma  McBirney— " 

"The  rest  of  us  have  no  Ma  McBirney,"  Sam 
reminded  her. 

But  after  all,  though  they  were  pensive,  they 
were  not  unhappy.  The  feeling  that  they  were 
close  and  trusted  friends  comforted  them. 
High  adventure  seemed  to  be  before  them.  The 
fortune,  so  curiously  lost  and  so  strangely  re- 
gained lay  there  on  the  table  by  them.  Sam  and 
Azalea  wondered  that  Annie  Laurie  did  not 
count  it  to  find  out  how  much  it  was,  but  she 
seemed  oddly  indifferent  to  that  fact.     Only 


28o  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

after  a  time  she  arose,  brushed  the  bills  into  her 
apron  and  stood  for  a  moment  smiling. 

"Sam,"  she  said  shyly,  "creep  up  to  the  attic, 
softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  aunts,  and  bring 
me  down  dad's  old  tin  arm!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Sam,  horrified. 

"Please,"  begged  the  girl. 

So  Sam  brought  it  and  the  three  laid  the  rolls 
of  bills  neatly  within  it. 

"It  will  comfort  father,"  said  Annie  Laurie 
quaintly,  "but  to-morrow  I'm  going  to  put  it  in 
the  bank." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

azalea's  party 

Baby  Jonathan  had  just  been  stung  by  one  of 
Pa  McBirney's  bees. 

"I  don't  like  the  way  he  kisseth,"  he  screamed, 
standing  beside  the  clump  of  golden  glow.  "I 
don't  like  it  a  bit." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,  mamma's  own 
honey-bird,"  soothed  Mrs.  Barbara,  dashing  for 
him  and  gathering  him  into  her  arms.  "He 
thought  you  were  a  flower,  son-son,  and  just 
lighted  on  you." 

"He  kisseth  too  hard,"  sobbed  Jonathan, 
plunging  his  golden  head  into  the  hollow  of  his 
mother's  arm.  "I  don't  want  to  play  with  him 
any  more,  ever." 

"What  a  shame  that  he  should  be  stung  at  his 
first  party,"  said  his  mother  indignantly,  as  she 
carried  him  to  the  seat  at  the  McBirney  outlook 
where  she  had  been  sitting  with  young  Richard 
Heller,  Sam  Disbrow's  friend — the  one  who  had 

spoken  the  cruel-kind  words  of  truth  to  him 

281 


282  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

which  had  sent  him  away  from  the  Rutherford 
Academy  without  so  much  as  putting  his  name 
on  the  register.  They  had  been  talking  about 
Sam  now,  and  when  Mrs.  Summers  had  plas- 
tered clay  over  the  wounded  cheek  of  her  son, 
and  had  soothed  him  with  many  kisses,  they  re- 
sumed their  conversation. 

"It's  going  to  come  all  right  with  him  next 
term,"  Dick  said  to  Mrs.  Summers.  "All  the 
fellows  in  the  country  who  know  him  at  all  real- 
ize what  a  brick  he's  been,  staying  right  here 
and  looking  his  trouble  in  the  face  and  helping 
the  Paces  out  the  way  he  did.  Why,  some  of 
the  men  wanted  him  to  change  his  name  when 
it  turned  out  that  Disbrow  was  such  a  thief,  but 
he  wouldn't  do  it.  He  said  he'd  promised  his 
dad — he  will  call  him  that — to  stick  to  him,  and 
that  it  wouldn't  be  keeping  his  word  to  take 
another  name.  He  said  Disbrow  was  as  good 
a  name  as  any  if  he  made  it  good.  So  he'll  be 
given  a  hearty  reception  when  he  comes  back  to 
Rutherford.  I've  frozen  onto  the  room  next  to 
mine  there  at  the  Ballenger  dormitories  and  I'm 
going  to  get  the  prefect  to  put  him  in  there.  The 
fellows  shall  see  that  he  and  I  are  friends,  any- 
way.    I  don't  know  as  that  counts  for  such  a 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  283 

tremendous  lot,  but  I'll  let  it  stand  for  all  it 
will." 

"Bless  you,"  said  Mrs.  Summers,  turning  her 
bright  smile  on  the  lad.  "I  can't  tell  you  what 
it  means  to  me  that  my  Sam  is  going  to  be  happy. 
As  you  know,  he's  been  living  with  us  the  past 
few  months,  and  never,  never  did  I  see  a  boy  who 
tried  harder  to  do  what  was  right.  But,  dear  me, 
that  isn't  all.  I've  known  good  folk  who  almost 
wore  me  out.  But  Sam  is  charming.  Now  that 
he's  happy  once  more  he's  the  very  life  of  the 
place,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal  of  a  house 
where  my  husband  lives.  Besides,  Jonathan 
rather  keeps  things  going.  Altogether,  I  sup- 
pose we're  the  noisest  and  the  happiest  lot  in 
Lee." 

"I  dare  say  you  are,"  smiled  the  youth  admir- 
ingly. "I  know  Sam's  a  wonder  at  keeping 
things  humming.  He's  been  like  that  from  the 
time  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  I  never  could  make 
out  how  such  a  live  one  could  belong  to  a  sour, 
down-in-the-mouth  family  like  the  Disbrows. 
It  was  quite  a  relief  to  me  when  I  found  he 
Vi^asn't  really  related  to  them  after  all,  but  had 
just  been  dropped  in  the  nest,  so  to  speak." 

"It  was  a  relief  to  everyone  who  cared  for 


284  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

him,  I  imagine,"  Mrs.  Summers  said.  "But  am 
I  not  keeping  you  here,  Dick,  away  from  the 
young  people?" 

"I  wouldn't  stay  here  if  I  didn't  want  to,  Mrs. 
Summers,"  Dick  replied  gallantly.  "You  see  I 
don't  know  these  girls  very  well,  but  Sam 
wanted  me  to  come  up  with  him,  and  Azalea 
was  good  enough  to  say  she'd  love  to  have  me, 
so  of  course  I  came.  I've  often  ridden  by  the 
McBirneys  and  thought  what  a  delightful  little 
place  it  was,  but  I  didn't  suppose  I'd  ever  be 
coming  to  a  birthday  party  here." 

"Well,  naturally  you  wouldn't  have  supposed 
it.  There  are  you  in  your  fine,  handsome  home, 
the  banker's  son,  all  of  your  paths  running  in  a 
different  direction  from  those  of  the  McBirneys, 
yet  I  doubt  if  ever  in  your  life  you  visited  a 
house  where  there  was  more  real  courtesy  and 
hospitality  than  there  is  here." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  of  that,  Mrs.  Summers.  And 
then  Azalea — isn't  she  a  wonder?  She  fasci- 
nates everybody.  As  my  mother  was  saying  this 
morning,  if  ever  there  was  a  girl  who  would 
make  you  forget  all  about  social  distinction  and 
just  join  in  on  a  happy  human  basis  to  have  a 
good   time — all   hands   'round — that   person   is 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  285 

Azalea.  Of  course,  as  mother  reminded  me, 
Azalea  came  from  as  cultivated  a  family  as  ever 
lived  in  this  district,  although  she  is  now  to  all 
intents  the  daughter  of  these  mountain  people." 

"It's  a  privilege,"  said  Barbara  Summers,  "to 
live  with  Mrs.  McBirney,  and  anyone  who  has 
the  sense  to  get  the  most  out  of  it  will  grow  up 
to  be  good  and  patient  and  wise." 

Perhaps  these  virtues  were  not  the  ones  which 
most  appealed  to  Dick  Heller  at  that  period  of 
his  life,  but  however  that  may  be,  he  could  not 
keep  his  eyes  off  the  mountain  girl.  He  could 
see  her  in  her  white,  hand-wrought  frock,  her 
hair  blown  about  her  dark  face,  flashing  here 
and  there  with  her  friends.  He  saw  her  run  to 
serve  some  one  who  was  merely  driving  along 
the  road — for  the  road  over  Tennyson  Mountain 
to  Lee  ran  quite  through  the  McBirney  yard, 
as  has  been  said  before.  It  was  evident  that  the 
McBirney's  were  asking  everyone  who  passed 
to  congratulate  them  on  their  adopted  daugh- 
ter's fifteenth  birthday,  and  in  return  they  were 
served  with  the  drink  of  sweetened  limes  and 
the  honey  cake  which  Ma  McBirney  had  pre- 
pared for  the  occasion. 

And  there  was  Pa  McBirney  In  his  white 


286  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

linen  clothes — they  had  been  his  father's — talk- 
ing with  Mr.  Carson,  in  his  smart  white  flannels ; 
and  Miss  Adnah  and  Miss  Zillah  in  new  figured 
lawns,  carrying  their  old  fringed  parasols 
bought  years  before  on  a  great  occasion  at 
Charleston;  and  near  them  was  Mrs.  Kitchell 
with  the  younger  children,  brown  and  strong, 
and  quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  occasion;  and  Hi 
and  Jim  were  putting  boards  on  saw  horses, 
ready  for  the  feast;  and  Carin  and  Annie  Laurie 
were  running  down  the  road  to  welcome  some 
freshly  arrived  guests. 

"I  say,"  boomed  the  great  voice  of  the  Rev- 
erend Absalom  Summers,  '^there  never  was  an- 
other spot  like  this  one!  Now,  was  there  ever, 
anywhere?  When  I  get  up  here  I  feel  just  like 
a  boy,  I'm  so  happy — why,  I'm  just  silly  with 
happiness.  I  like  the  way  the  grass  smells,  and 
the  road  winds,  and  the  spring  gushes,  and  the 
flowers  blossom,  and  the  clouds  sail,  and  the 
valley  lies,  and  Mrs.  McBirney  cooks,  and  Mr. 
McBirney  tells  stories,  and  Jim  whistles,  and 
I'll  be  plagued  if  I  don't  like  everything  about 


it." 


"Well,  be  calm,  Absalom  dear,"  smiled  his 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  287 

wife.  "You  don't  have  to  hoot  like  an  owl  be- 
cause you're  happy." 

"You  know  how  to  stop  the  hooting  of  an 
owl?"  demanded  the  irrepressible  man  of  the 
company  in  general.  "You  just  stand  it  as  long 
as  you  can  without  swearing  and  then  you  take 
off  your  right  slipper  and  put  it  on  your  left 
foot  and  the  owl  will  stop.  I've  tried  it  dozens 
of  times — and  the  owl  always  stopped." 

"Git  along!"  called  a  voice  from  somewhere 
up  among  the  trees.  "That  way  don't  compare 
with  my  way." 

"Who  is  that  challenging  me?"  roared  Mr. 
Summers.  But  he  had  no  need  to  ask.  It  was 
Haystack  Thompson  who  was  dropping  down 
on  them  from  somewhere  up  in  the  mountain, 
and  who  of  course  had  his  fiddle  under  his  arm. 
For  to  go  to  a  party  without  a  fiddle  was  some- 
thing of  which  Mr.  Thompson  never  yet  had 
been  guilty. 

"What's  your  receipt  for  stopping  a  hootin' 
owl,  Mr.  Bones?"  demanded  Mr.  Summers. 

"Why,"  answered  Haystack  seriously,  "you 
jest  heat  a  poker  white  hot  and  wave  it  in  the 
air  three  times  and  they'll  stop  clean  off." 

Absalom  Summers  shook  his  great  fist  under 


288  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

Haystack's  nose — "What's  the  use  in  trying  to 
force  a  fool  superstition  like  that  down  our 
throats,  Thompson?"  he  roared.  "Changing 
slippers  is  the  only  up-to-date,  scientific  way  and 
Heller  here,  who's  been  to  school,  can  tell  you 
so." 

But  Haystack  refused  to  yield  an  inch.  A 
heated  poker  was  the  thing  for  him,  he  said. 

"A  fiddle's  the  thing  for  you,  Mr.  Thomp- 
son," cried  Mrs.  Carson.  "I  don't  believe  you 
know  how  to  handle  anything  else — not  even  a 
porridge  spoon." 

Indeed,  unconsciously,  the  old  man  had  been 
taking  the  covering  from  the  instrument. 

"That's  right,  that's  right,"  Thomas  McBir- 
ney  said.  "Tune  up,  old  friend.  Then  we'll 
know  that  it's  a  party  for  sure." 

And  tune  up  he  did.  At  first  it  seemed  only 
to  be  tuning,  and  they  couldn't  tell  where  he 
left  ofif  getting  ready  and  when  he  began  to  play. 
But  by  and  by  there  were  odd  little  sounds 
that  might  have  been  squirrels  chittering,  or 
birds  stirring  in  their  nests.  Then  they  grew 
sweeter  and  more  liquid  and  seemed  like  water 
running  over  stones  and  wind  singing  in  the 
trees.     And  by  and  by  the  whistle  of  a  robin 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  289 

broke  in  and  then  a  thrush  sang  his  soul  out  at 
the  gates  of  Heaven;  then  the  night  seemed  to 
be  falling,  kindly,  as  if  it  would  give  rest  to  all 
the  weary.  After  that  it  was  black  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  as  if  a  storm  was  gathering.  There 
seemed  to  be  distant  sounds  of  thunder.  But  it 
passed  quickly  as  some  nights  do,  if  one  is,  for 
example,  fifteen,  and  then  the  dawn  came  over 
the  hills,  dancing.  There  must  have  been  blithe 
maidens  ushering  it  in — for  who  else  would  have 
had  such  light  and  lilting  feet?  Yes,  they  were 
dancing  down  over  the  hills,  scattering  flowers, 
and  the  birds  were  perched  upon  their  shoulders 
and  rosy  clouds  were  wreathing  them. 

At  least  that  was  the  lovely  picture  that  Hay- 
stack Thompson's  music  brought  to  Barbara 
Summers  as  she  sat  holding  her  little  son,  and 
then  the  next  thing  she  knew  all  of  her  friends 
really  were  dancing.  Ma  McBirney  was  danc- 
ing with  Mr.  Carson,  and  Pa  McBirney  had 
Annie  Laurie  for  a  partner,  and  Sam  had  Aza- 
lea, and  Carin  was  with  Dick  Heller,  and  Jim 
was  footing  it  with  Hi's  little  sister,  and  Hi  and 
his  mother  were  making  a  show  of  hopping 
around. 

Only  Absalom  Summers  wasn't  dancing,  be- 


290  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

cause  he  was  the  Methodist  minister  and  didn't 
believe  in  it — at  least  he  said  he  didn't.  He  sat 
beating  juba  with  his  great  hands,  making  a  ter- 
rific rhythmical  accompaniment  and  crying: 

"That's  it — keep  it  up — go  right  along  on  the 
road  to  destruction — keep  it  up  there,  McBir- 
ney — I'm  here  to  see  you  through."  He  threw 
back  his  head  with  its  tossed  straight  hair  and 
gave  vent  to  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"You're  a  comfortable  preacher  to  have 
around,"  declared  Mr.  Carson,  stopping  to  catch 
his  breath. 

"Comfortable!"  roared  Mr.  Summers,  giving 
a  twist  to  Mr.  Carson's  meaning.  "I  never  was 
so  comfortable  in  my  life." 

Miss  Adnah  and  Miss  Zillah  were  helping 
Ma  McBirney  to  set  the  table  now,  and  the 
young  people  were  dashing  about  on  errands, 
and  more  friends  were  coming,  some  from  over 
the  mountains  and  some  up  from  town,  and  by 
and  by  they  all  sat  down  to  the  table  and  ate 
together.  There  was  fried  chicken,  and  rice 
cooked  with  cheese,  and  beaten  biscuit,  and 
golden  butter  in  little  pats,  and  cooling  drinks 
of  lime  and  orange  and  mint,  and  cakes — three 
kinds — and  ice  cream  which  the  Carson's  had 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  291 

brought  up  in  great  freezers.  It  is  necessary  to 
tell  what  there  was  to  eat,  because  eating  is  a 
very  important  part  of  a  party. 

And  then  there  were  the  gifts  to  see.  Almost 
everyone  had  brought  a  gift.  Even  some  of  the 
people  who  were  passing  and  who  had  not 
known  there  was  to  be  a  party  at  all,  and  who 
perhaps  did  not  know  the  McBirneys  very  well, 
had  fished  out  something  from  their  wagons  for 
the  orphan  girl  who  had  made  so  many  people 
love  her. 

So  there  was  the  little  gold  watch  from  Mrs.- 
Carson,  and  the  ivory  toilet  set  from  Carin,  a 
set  of  Tennyson  from  Mr.  Carson,  and  a  hand- 
made petticoat  from  Annie  Laurie,  and  some 
old  eardrops  of  pink  coral  made  into  a  brooch 
by  Miss  Adnah,  and  a  knitted  shoulder  shawl 
from  Miss  Zillah,  and  a  kind  of  zither  thing  that 
Sam  had  made  himself,  and  a  box  of  sweets  from 
Dick  Heller,  and — are  you  out  of  breath?  Be- 
cause there  are  ever  so  many  more  things. 
There  was  a  rag  rug,  beautifully  woven,  from 
Mrs.  Kitchell,  and  a  whisk  broom  holder  from 
Hi,  and  a  wonderful  melon-shaped  basket,  fine 
and  delicate,  from  Haystack  Thompson,  who 
knew  more  than  most  about  weaving  baskets,  and 


292  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

there  was  a  white  parasol  from  Ma  McBirney — 
who  never  could  afford  a  parasol  for  herself — 
and  a  new  riding  whip  from  Pa  McBirney,  and 
from  Jim  a  new  curry  comb  which  he  said  he 
would  use  when  he  curried  Paprika,  the  pony. 
And  then  other  people,  about  whom  you  know 
nothing,  brought  their  contributions.  Every- 
thing was  laid  out  in  that  pleasant,  open  cham- 
ber, which  it  will  be  remembered  divided  the 
McBirney  house  in  two. 

The  people  who  came  to  this  party  weren't 
the  sort  whose  singing  is  ruined  by  something 
good  to  eat.  After  the  dishes  had  been  cleared 
away  they  sat  where  they  could  look  off  at  the 
valley  as  the  shadows  began  to  stretch  long  and 
purple  down  from  the  ridges. 

And  then  everyone  regretfully  realized  that 
it  was  time  to  go  home.  So  there  was  a  great 
mounting  of  horses  and  piling  into  wagons,  and 
Jim  and  Hi  held  stirrups  and  helped  ladies  into 
the  high  mountain  wagons — the  sort  you  can 
turn  the  wheel  under  if  you  have  to  make  a  short 
curve — and  presently  they  were  all  off  and  away. 

Azalea,  all  in  her  pretty  white,  slipped  on 
Paprika's  back  and  rode  for  a  way  with  her 
guests.     But  at  the  first  turn  she  shouted  her 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  293 

good-byes  to  them  and  turned  back  up  the 
mountain.  It  was  getting  to  be  dusky  now  even 
along  her  high  path,  and  the  coolness  of  the 
evening  was  settling  about  her.  It  was  a  fra- 
grant dusk,  for  the  summer  was  at  its  height  and 
sent  out  a  thousand  pleasant  perfumes.  She 
brought  her  pony  to  a  halt  as  she  reached  the 
top  of  the  ridge,  and  waited  for  a  moment  to  let 
herself  sink  fairly  into  the  place  and  the  hour. 
The  trees,  whispering  in  her  ear,  seemed  her 
close  friends;  the  night  was  like  a  protectress; 
the  little  sleeping  creatures  in  the  trees  and  the 
holes  of  the  ground  seemed  close  and  kind. 

For  once  that  eager  nature  of  hers,  which 
asked  for  so  full  a  measure  of  joy  and  delight, 
was  satisfied.  She  spoke  a  word  to  her  little 
mare,  which  began  picking  out  the  road  again 
with  her  sure  feet.  As  Paprika  drew  near  the 
house  she  whinnied,  and  Azalea  laughingly  imi- 
tated her. 

"Send  her  along,  sis,"  shouted  Jim  from  some- 
where in  the  gloom.    "I'll  put  her  up." 

"Thanks,"  called  back  Azalea.  She  slipped 
from  her  saddle  and  ran  into  the  lighted  room. 
Pa  McBirney  was  smoking,  Ma  McBirney  was 
still  busy  putting  thing  to  rights.    Azalea  gave 


294  ANNIE  LAURIE  AND  AZALEA 

her  a  gentle  push  which  sent  her  into  her  own 
deep-armed  rocker. 

"Daughter  will  do  the  rest,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  protested  Mary  McBirney, 
"aren't  you  tired?  You've  been  going  like  a 
streak  all  day." 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  begin  before  sunup  the 
way  you  did,  mother.  My,  my,  what  a  happy 
day  it's  been!  What  a  happy  day!  And  a  little 
more  than  a  year  ago — "  she  could  not  go  on. 

All  three  were  silent,  thinking  of  the  changes 
a  year  had  brought.  Azalea  had  remembered 
that  morning  to  trim  with  flowers  the  graves 
beneath  the  Pride  of  India  tree,  so  that  they 
would,  in  their  way,  be  included  in  the  festival. 
For  Ma  McBirney  had  taught  her  how  love  can 
live  on  though  death  comes  between,  and  how 
sorrow  can  be  turned  into  sweetness. 

That  seemed  to  be  the  secret  of  the  whole 
thing  anyway — turning  sorrow  into  sweetness. 

Finally  Azalea  spoke  again.  She  had  just 
set  the  best  dishes  in  their  place  and  folded  up 
the  table  cover. 

"And  the  girls,"  she  said  musingly,  "they've 
come  to  me  too,  this  year — Carin  and  Annie 
Laurie.     Dear  me,  but  we  do  have  fun!" 


AZALEA'S  PARTY  295 

"Yes,"  responded  Ma  McBirney  sympathet- 
ically, "I  never  did  see  three  girls  have  a  better 
understanding  of  each  other,  or  ones  who 
enjoyed  each  other's  society  more.  What  is  it 
Mrs.  Carson  calls  it?" 

"The  Triple  Alliance,"  smiled  Azalea.  "And 
now,  since  it's  all  right  about  Annie  Laurie's 
money,  I  really  and  truly  do  think  we're  the 
happiest  girls  in  the  world." 


THE  END 


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